


Fear Not The Wicked

by magisterpavus



Series: Sheith Demon/Priest AU [1]
Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Aphrodisiacs, Blasphemy, Bottom Shiro (Voltron), Catholic Guilt, Crisis of Faith, Demon Keith (Voltron), Denial of Feelings, Dubious Consent, Exorcisms, Fuck Or Die, Hurt/Comfort, Kabeshiri, Knotting, M/M, Overstimulation, Period-Typical Homophobia, Power Bottom Keith (Voltron), Praise Kink, Priest Shiro (Voltron), Sex Magic, Shapeshifting, Slow Burn, Tail Sex, but horny wins :), more like exorcisms used as dirty talk...., shiro is def into it but Conflicted because
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-15
Updated: 2020-05-15
Packaged: 2021-03-02 18:28:56
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 21,297
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24191353
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/magisterpavus/pseuds/magisterpavus
Summary: The man with indigo eyes comes to Shiro’s church on the day of the first snowfall, seeking sanctuary.His name is Keith, and he is not what he seems.
Relationships: Keith/Shiro (Voltron)
Series: Sheith Demon/Priest AU [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1807027
Comments: 65
Kudos: 649





	Fear Not The Wicked

**Author's Note:**

> I'm so excited to FINALLY be sharing this fic.....this priest AU has seen several different iterations since summer 2019 when the idea first came to me, but I eventually found one that worked and I hope you enjoy it too! this is one of those fics that I wonder if anyone will read bc it feels VERY self-indulgent and is partly just me getting carried away with lore and paganism vs catholicism stuff lmao butttt hey I know some people are into that too. thank you for enabling me heh
> 
> you'll never look at a confessional the same way again after reading this >:) ENJOY~
> 
> find me on twitter [@saltyshiro](https://twitter.com/saltyshiro) for more sheith (ALSO THANK YOU [@yolkswagen2](https://twitter.com/yolkswagen2) FOR THE EXORCISMS & LATIN GENIUS)  
> UPDATE: endless love to the wonderful ser for the art of Keith in the confessional, [please give love to the original post here!](https://twitter.com/crushmeshiro/status/1261458913125376000)

The man with indigo eyes comes to Shiro’s church on the day of the first snowfall.

It isn’t unusual that Shiro sees strangers in his congregation. His church is a small one, perched high in the mountains, near enough to the mountain pass that he serves a fair number of travelers. Most of them don’t linger long in the nearby village, which is more a part of the landscape itself than a human habitation – the villagers number hardly three dozen these days, and keep to themselves, and are wary of those traveling strangers. 

Their wariness comes with good reason, at least according to their old superstitions, which they’re very fond of telling Shiro. Many of them still worship the old religions, but they turn to Shiro’s church as a place of community and curiosity, and he has found ways to teach them the holy word that fit well enough into their original customs. Shiro is certain that this is the only reason he hasn’t been cast out with pitchforks like all the priests who came before him. But Shiro has been here eight years without any animosity, and it may be a bleak place to share ministry, but perhaps those are the places in which it is needed most.

Still, when the snow comes, Shiro rarely leaves his church, and makes himself productive during the months of quiet solitude, praying and writing and reading the days away. The mountain storms turn the pass treacherous, and few travelers are foolish enough to attempt the journey in the winter, so although Shiro’s church is a refuge for them in every other season, now the spare rooms sit empty.

But not this winter.

The first snows come in a roaring blizzard, and Shiro is grateful for the thick stone walls, which are drafty but strong enough to withstand the fierce winds. He’s putting out some candles on the altar when he hears it – a pitiful cry from outside the great oaken doors, warped by the shrieking gale, but unmistakable nonetheless. 

Shiro starts towards the door at once, but stops when he hears it again, louder now, so mournful and wailing that it gives him pause. The mountain folk have many stories, of ghosts and devils in the woods, in the snow, on dark and stormy nights like this one. They wail and weep in the wind, knocking on doors, begging for entry, but if you let them in –

Shiro shakes himself, and frowns. This is the House of the Lord. He is safe here, and though there can be no denying some strangeness in the mountains, Shiro will not turn away someone in need because of an unfounded suspicion that they might be a supernatural being. So Shiro opens the door, snow swirling into the dry chapel, and peers out into the gathering snow. “Hello?” he calls. “Is anyone out there?”

The figure staggers up – they’ve been kneeling beside the door, and Shiro startles back, surprised by their proximity...then stops as their eyes meet. The young man – or perhaps he is a boy; his age is hard to determine in a way Shiro cannot entirely explain – looks at him with eyes of the deepest, loveliest indigo, his dark lashes encrusted with frost and his lips bluish with frostbite. He wears a coat with more holes than patches, his pants are threadbare, and his boots are terribly worn. He is shivering violently. Shiro’s heart aches for him.

“Oh, come in, come in,” Shiro exclaims, guiding him forward with a hand on his shoulder when the young man does not object. He shuffles over the threshold, still shivering, arms drawn tight around his slender frame. “How long have you been out in that storm?” Shiro asks, peering again at his face as soon as the doors are closed, his fine features now bathed in golden candlelight. His hair is as dark as his eyelashes, curling at the nape of his neck and flecked also with snow and ice, like the rest of him.

The stranger does not answer at once, but looks around the chapel, his eyes wide, widening further still when he looks upon Shiro. “I – a long time,” he murmurs at last, his voice surprisingly low, husky. He clears his throat. “Have – have you got a drink? Wine, maybe?”

Shiro blinks at him. The only wine a church like his would have is the communion wine. “I have some mead, if that would be acceptable...though I daresay you’ll be needing some warm, dry clothes, too.”

“Oh, yes, Father,” the stranger sighs, gaze darting up to him. “Forgive me – what is your name, kind priest?”

“Father Shirogane, but everyone here just calls me Shiro,” Shiro tells him gently. “May I ask your name?”

“Keith,” the stranger says, tilting his head. “Thank you, Shiro...you’ve saved my life.”

“There is no need to thank me,” Shiro replies, “you sought sanctuary, and that is what I am here for. My church is open to you for as long as you should have need of it.”

“You are a kind man indeed, Shiro,” Keith says softly, still shivering, but smiling now, shyly.

Shiro smiles back, and helps him over to the door leading to the kitchen and guest chambers. “Come, now, and we’ll get you warmed up in no time.”

“Of that, I have no doubt,” Keith agrees.

Shiro draws up a bath while Keith gets accustomed to his new lodgings. As the water heats on the hearth, Shiro considers who this strange visitor might be, and wonders if he should expect to spend the entire winter with him. The possibility is honestly a little exciting – it would be his first winter not spent in solitude, and this stranger named Keith is intriguing. He seems like the kind of person who has many good stories to tell. Travelers always have good stories…

This line of thought is stopped short by Keith, who is standing in the doorway, fully nude.

Shiro opens his mouth. Closes it. Staggers to his feet, almost burning his hand on the water pot as he hastily pours it into the wooden tub, ducking his head and saying in the steadiest tone he can manage, “I – can find a robe for you, if you would prefer – you – um.”

Keith tilts his head, stepping forward. Shiro gulps, resolutely focusing on Keith’s face, unsure as to why he’s so affected by the sight. He has seen plenty of nude men before, but – none quite so beautiful as Keith. 

He’s certainly a man, not a boy, and Shiro would swear he was taller than he first seemed, if that wasn’t a preposterous thought. His loose clothing hid lean, whipcord muscles and an elegant frame: the way Keith holds himself is somehow regal, not quite disdainful, but with an air of quiet pride. 

Or maybe Shiro is just telling himself these things to avoid staring at Keith’s dick, which is plump and rosy in the firelight –

Oh, dear. Shiro turns away and clears his throat.

“Is something wrong, Father?” Keith asks softly, barely audible above the crackle of the flames.

“N-no,” Shiro says, and forces a smile. “I’m sorry. I forget, many places have different customs. I’m simply used to a more modest culture, here in the mountains – I’ll leave you to it. There are clean clothes on the chair, and I hope everything in the bedroom was to your liking?”

“Oh, yes. It’s perfect.” Keith smiles, and it is devastating. He takes another step forward, then lifts his leg into the bathwater, dipping his toes slowly. Shiro resolutely does not watch how the movement makes his body ripple, abdomen flexing in a way Shiro would almost swear was purposeful. 

But that, he reminds himself, would be absurd. Why would a handsome stranger show any liking for himself, a scarred, prematurely gray, one-armed, altogether dull and uninspiring priest? It’s common knowledge that priests take vows of chastity, anyway. Shiro is simply letting his imagination run away from him.

“Right, then, ah – I will get some supper for you –”

“That’s alright, Father,” Keith murmurs, stepping fully into the bath and kneeling down in it, blinking up at Shiro through the clouds of steam with those mesmerizing eyes, glinting like chips of the darkest stained glass Shiro’s ever seen. “I’m not hungry. Just thirsty. As there is no wine...do you have tea?”

“Tea, yes,” Shiro says, shaking himself, “of course, lots of tea, so much tea –”

“Good,” Keith murmurs. “I look forward to midnight tea with you, then.” And he sinks back into the bathwater with a sigh of utter satisfaction.

Shiro does not stay to watch the irresistible way his body arches in the heated water, or the way his eyes stay locked upon Shiro until the door closes behind him, something in them hot, wicked, and undeniably predatory.

*

There is something strange about Keith. 

Strange, and irresistible. He is endearing in his oddness, often wandering about in the morning without a shirt, in only his smallclothes, like he has forgotten he has any others. When Shiro expresses concern that he is cold and offers him a cloak, Keith takes to draping it around himself like a blanket, always touching the fur-lined collar with apparent fascination.

And Shiro was right about him having stories. Keith is quiet most of the time, but when’s he’s in the mood he has many of them, as strange as he is, but he asks Shiro for stories too, and this is a surprise. He asks many questions, too, which is less of a surprise. Most travelers are curious about the lone mountain priest. But Keith’s questions are...different.

“Why do the villagers not visit you?” Keith asks him on the third day he is with Shiro, chewing on a piece of toast slathered in too much strawberry jam, the kind Shiro usually only saves for special occasions, but which Keith has taken a liking to. 

Shiro pauses, setting down his own toast. “They do,” he replies, “they haven’t yet, but they will. Most Sundays they come, and they come to me for aid, when their healer cannot help the sick or wounded, or when they seek comfort they cannot find in the earthly realm.”

“So you are their second choice,” Keith says. There’s no cruelty in the way he says it, but Shiro flinches.

“I wouldn’t say that,” he murmurs. “I’m simply here when they need me, and they know that.”

Keith takes another bite of his jam toast and takes his time chewing. When he’s swallowed, he says, “And who is here for you?”

Shiro chuckles. “The Lord, of course. I have all I need here.” Keith doesn’t look convinced. That’s alright, few are. Shiro smiles gently. “Forgive me for prying, but are you a believer?”

“Everyone’s a believer,” Keith retorts, leaning back in his chair. “In someone, or something.”

“And what is it you believe in, then?”

Keith shrugs, returns Shiro’s smile in a sharp, shining crescent. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” Shiro offers, chin in hand. “The villagers here believe many things, and I’ve never told them they’re wrong for doing so.”

“The villagers here believe in fear,” Keith retorts. “They come to you because you promise them safety. You want to know what I believe? That safety of yours is an empty promise.”

Shiro pauses, frowning. “I see. So you don’t believe this is hallowed ground, warded against evil?”

“I think your church has a very narrow definition of evil,” Keith drawls. “The things your villagers believe in – those creatures don’t serve a God, nor a Devil. They serve themselves.”

“Yet those monsters in the mountains have never come here,” Shiro counters. “These walls keep them out. And the villagers have only had a few attacks since I arrived here – and those attacks are from wolves, or else bears.”

“You sound very sure of that,” Keith murmurs. He sets down his toast. “Alright, Father. You want to know what I believe in? I believe in all those ‘monsters in the mountains,’ because I’ve seen them. More than just seen them. They’re awful lonely, those monsters. They come crawling to lone travelers’ cook-fires and linger there, and if you amuse them for long enough, they might decide to let you live. Well, none of them have been displeased with me. I tell them tales, tales of places those wretched beasts who dwell in the snow and ice have never seen nor never will. And you know what else, Father? Every place has its monsters. The monsters up here are just harder to miss. But in all the towns and cities below, there are such foul creatures as you would never believe, and they are not halted by holy walls...or holy men.”

“I’ll admit to curiosity,” Shiro offers, though his gut twists at the tone Keith’s voice has taken, low and rhythmic like some long-lost chant, like he has spoken these words before and will speak them again. It’s certainly the most words he’s ever strung together in Shiro’s presence so far. “What do you mean by ‘foul creatures,’ hm? In the faith, we call those demons.”

Keith’s smile widens. “Demons,” he repeats. “Yes, what a pretty word that is. But they were daemons first – neither good nor evil. I think humans are to blame for their turn to darkness, but that’s neither here nor there.”

“Humans do sin,” Shiro replies. “But something tells me that’s not the blame you speak of.”

“If you want to call all the witch hunts, the exorcisms, the desecration of altars, and the inquisitions sins, then yes, we speak of the same blame.”

Shiro clears his throat. “There are no witch hunts here.”

“No,” Keith agrees, studying him. “There are also not many priests willing to let the old and the new lie together.”

“I do not tell my congregation what to believe,” Shiro retorts. “That would not be much of a belief at all.”

“Mmm.” Keith’s eyes wander upwards, over the intricate stonework and carved wooden cabinets in the small kitchen. “Is that why they believe in your faith? Why they have stopped so many of the old sacrifices, abandoned the old altars, say the prayers you teach them over their babies’ cradles?”

“That is their choice,” Shiro says firmly, unsettled by the fervor in Keith’s words. “And how do you know all of these things? Have you been to this village before?”

Keith’s gaze is distant. “A long time ago,” he says, then shakes himself, and smiles thinly. “But, I have been many other places since. What of you, Father? Have you journeyed much, before you settled here on this cold peak?”

“Oh,” Shiro says, admittedly uncomfortable with the question – he hears the stories of others, but rarely tells his own. “No, I have – I was born in a small town, far away from here, and fought in the wars, even farther away from here.”

“Ah,” Keith murmurs, “so the Church snatched you up when the wars ended? That makes more sense.”

Shiro has not had enough tea for this conversation. He tells himself patience is a virtue and replies, “I was in a bad place when the wars ended, but I found the Church, and found comfort in it. You may have seen many monsters, but I have seen true evil, Keith...everywhere I looked on that battlefield. So I found peace in citadels of good, the powerful good of God. I found peace in sharing that with others.”

“And what do they give you in return?”

Shiro blinks owlishly at him. “What?”

“You give them peace, sacraments, blessings, prayers, shelter, food, a kind word – but you are not part of their community.” Keith tilts his head. “Perhaps you don’t even want to be.”

Shiro chuckles, not without self-deprecation. “It has been said I am a hermit,” he admits, “but being alone is not so bad. It gives me time to think, to speak with God.”

“And does he answer?”

“I would like to think so,” Shiro says evasively. “I feel his presence daily, in a way I have felt in few other places.”

“There is old magic in these mountains.” Keith’s eyes are so very, very dark.

“Call it what you will,” Shiro says. “I call it God, you call it magic.”

“Hm.” Keith offers him no more words that day, but wanders the church while Shiro continues his endless, private work of translating and transcribing the scriptures into a language the mountain folk know. 

This work is not work that the Church approves of, exactly...but Shiro disagrees that he should be the only one here with access to the Word of God. The Church may not know or approve of his work, but Shiro knows in his heart it is good work, important work, and that is all that matters to him.

As the days pass, however, and the storm outside worsens, Keith grows curious about Shiro’s work. Shiro doesn’t mind Keith joining him quietly in the archives, and when Keith expresses his desire to draw, Shiro provides him with parchment, ink, and charcoal. Keith tucks himself beside the oil lamp in the corner and keeps to himself. 

Shiro doesn’t see what Keith draws, and doesn’t want to pry – Keith is protective of his art, and Shiro is protective of his own work. So he thinks they have a mutual understanding until one day, Shiro returns to the archives after fetching some bread from the kitchen and finds Keith standing over his desk, staring at the papers with wide eyes.

Shiro stops in the doorway, brow lowering. “Keith, come away from there.”

Keith looks up. “I don’t know all the laws of your Church, but I think this may be what they call heretical, Father.”

“You’re mistaken,” Shiro says coldly, and starts towards the desk. “It’s simply research, that is all.”

“Is it not said,” Keith murmurs, stepping away from the desk as Shiro approaches, “that heretics will be punished most severely in eternal damnation?”

Shiro’s jaw clenches. “Yes, it is said. It is good, then, that I am not one of them.”

“Of course. I’m sorry, Father. I shouldn’t speak of things I do not understand.” Keith returns to the window, but peers at him intently over his parchment. “May I ask you a question?”

Shiro sits down heavily and sighs. “You may…”

“You never said if you believed in demons.” Keith tilts his head. “The Church says they are real, but I wonder if you disagree.”

“I’m not a heretic,” Shiro reminds him, and sighs again. “Yes, I believe in demons, as I believe in evil.”

“What do you know of demons, Father?”

There is a hypnotic quality in his voice, his eyes, so dark, darker than the cloudless night, fixed wide upon Shiro as if they might sooner swallow him up than blink.

Shiro holds his quill tightly; he does not realize it splinters until ink drips slow and warm down his knuckles, staining his black sleeve, pooling on the worn wood of the table. “Why do you ask me such questions, Keith?” he whispers.

“Do they disturb you? I’m sorry.”

But Shiro isn’t certain he is. “I know of demons what the Church has told me,” he replies.

“You have never seen them, then? Or have you seen them in the evil of the wars?”

“I do not go looking for demons,” Shiro says, clumsily wiping clean his ink-stained hand with a handkerchief. “I have seen enough of evil to last me several lifetimes – enough of slaughter and cruelty and pain.”

“Are all demons of the violent sort?” Keith inquires softly. 

Shiro’s skin prickles, and he does not wholly know why. “I am sure they must be, though some violence may be more hidden, it is violence nonetheless.”

Keith watches him steadily. “But wrath is only one of the capital vices.”

“There is violence in pride, greed, gluttony, and envy also,” Shiro retorts. “And the others – are a more personal violence. Sloth can easily bring one to ruin, as can the last.”

“The last,” Keith repeats. Is Shiro imagining his mocking tone? “Have you forgotten it, Father? Has it been that long?”

Shiro stiffens. “Priests must be very different, where you come from. We take vows.”

“Oh, very different.” Keith’s lips quirk. “In a land I once lived, the priests gave their worship through their own bodies. Is that not true devotion?”

Shiro clears his throat, a little frantically. “Our faith is a chaste one.”

“That seems like a special kind of violence,” Keith murmurs, “to impose such a rule.”

“Nothing was imposed,” Shiro says, strained, “I – I knew full well what vows I was meant to take, they were sworn willingly –”

“Does talk of lust frighten you?” Keith looks back down at his parchment, his lashes casting long shadows across his pale cheeks. “I will stop, if it does. I can be silent, if you wish, Father.”

They sit in silence for hardly two more minutes before Shiro mutters, half to himself, “What manner of creature did they follow, that demanded such...such carnal worship?”

Keith looks up, and his dark eyes gleam far too brightly. “A powerful one.”

*

One day after breakfast, Shiro cannot find Keith anywhere. 

His room is empty, and he does not join Shiro in the archives, and he is not pilfering jam from the kitchen, and Shiro would think he had left if his cloak and things had not still been where he left them.

When he finally thinks to look in the crypt, that is of course the one place Keith is. 

The chapel crypt itself is small, but the villagers have told Shiro that the original crypts go much further, much deeper into the earth than the humble marble chamber. Shiro isn’t fond of this thought; he doesn’t go down there more than strictly necessary – there are a few relics, nothing really impressive, just enough to bring some lesser saints’ power to the church. 

When he finds Keith in the crypt, however, he’s not looking at the ornate boxes the relics are kept in, within their little alcove. He’s just sitting in the middle of the crypt on the packed earth floor, his palms pressed to it and his head bowed. The slump of his body is weak, defeated. Shiro hesitates on the steps, uncertain if he should disturb his odd, enchanting guest, but then he hears Keith’s soft sob.

Shiro swallows and steps into the crypt. Only a single candle is lit, and Shiro fumbles for more illumination, lighting the wall sconces set into the stone as he approaches Keith and clears his throat gently. “Keith...what’s wrong? Are you praying down here?”

Keith doesn’t lift his head, but he flinches hard as the light washes over him, and Shiro comes to kneel beside him. Hesitantly, Shiro places his hand on Keith’s shoulder. Keith doesn’t look up, but he mutters, “No – not praying.” His voice is rough, and the sliver of his face that Shiro can see is wet with tear tracks. Keith turns away. “Will you not leave me in peace, Father?”

“This is not a good place to be alone,” Shiro tells him, squeezing his shoulder once before letting go, not wanting to overstep. “And you’re upset…”

“Yes,” Keith sighs. “Upset, that’s...one word for it.” He slumps further forward.

“Why?” Shiro asks softly. “What can I do?”

Keith lifts his head just enough to peer at Shiro through the ragged fall of his hair. “You weren’t supposed to be like this,” he mutters. _“Kind._ And not falsely so, but...truly, in your heart.” He reaches out, then, and presses his hand to Shiro’s chest, over his heart. Shiro’s breath catches, but then Keith’s hand falls away, tucked back in his lap. 

“Have you met many falsely kind priests?” Shiro asks once he’s found his voice again.

Keith scoffs. “Too many to count. It’s funny, what men will do, when given a little power and a book from God only they can read.”

“Unfortunately, you are right,” Shiro agrees, and Keith shoots him another look of disbelief. “But I’m sorry those are the only men of the cloth you have known.”

Keith frowns. “I have known you, too.”

It’s not an innuendo. It’s _not._ “So you have. But you still have not said why you’re down here.”

“No,” Keith says. “I have not.” He pauses, looking up to gaze at the cold pillars and circular chamber. “There is something familiar, down here,” he admits. “I find it comforting. Like a place I once knew very well.”

“I think few others would say they find comfort among the dead,” Shiro muses.

“It is not the dead,” Keith replies, “that I feel down here. It’s something good, alive. This earth, this mountain earth – did you know that your church is built upon the most fertile soil on this peak? It is – or was – full of life, I think. Long ago. Before this marble tomb was made.”

“Is this another story you’ve heard on your travels?” Shiro asks curiously. “Are there many such stories about this place?”

“Many,” Keith agrees, “but I do not think you’d wish to hear them, Father.” Unexpectedly, his lower lip begins to tremble, and as Shiro watches in alarm, his eyes fill with tears anew, and he crumples forward. “They are – very old stories…most forgotten.”

“Hey, shh…” Shiro reaches for him, intending to simply rub his shoulder again, but instead he gets a lapful of Keith, and sits there blinking as Keith clings to him, his weeping silent but evident from the wetness on Shiro’s chest. “Oh, Keith,” Shiro whispers, “it is alright.”

“It is not,” Keith retorts, muffled in his chest. “You cannot know, Shiro – the hurt I feel, the hurt done to me, cast out from my home into the wide world to wander until – until…” He shudders, and falls silent. 

“Who hurt you in such a way?” Shiro whispers, gathering Keith up in his arms, worry threading through him. “Other priests?”

“That is what they call themselves,” Keith says, quietly, bitterly.

“Then those men are too cruel for the faith,” Shiro says firmly.

“Or perhaps you are too good for it,” Keith whispers. 

Shiro doesn’t answer, just holds him tighter, and when Keith breaks away a few moments later and wordlessly stands, wiping his eyes with a grimace, Shiro says nothing, just leads him upstairs and makes them both some ginseng tea. 

He watches Keith over the rim of his cup, studying the way the rising steam wreathes his strange, lovely face, his wild dark hair haloed from the window behind him and the white winter outside. 

Keith sees him looking, indigo eyes meeting his gaze with a question, but Shiro only smiles apologetically, shakes his head, and drinks his tea.

Shiro could swear that Keith looks disappointed, but he says nothing. 

They finish their tea in the shared quiet, and Shiro does not think of how right it felt to hold Keith in his arms.

*

When the weather is a little milder, Shiro decides to set out some of his old rabbit-traps, and perhaps try a bit of fishing, because although Keith has never voiced any complaint, Shiro thinks he’s looking worryingly gaunt lately. Some fresh meat will do them both good. 

“I’m going up to the mountain stream to do a little hunting,” Shiro tells him on a crisp, clear morning over breakfast. Keith is picking at his jam and toast listlessly, but his gaze darts up at Shiro’s words, brow furrowing. “Do you like fish? I think there are still a few left this time of year…”

“I want to go with you,” Keith says, hesitant like he thinks Shiro will protest.

“The more the merrier.” Shiro is quietly delighted by the prospect of having company. It’s not a very fun trek, and it will be good to have someone to spot him on the treacherous rocks. “Do you do much hunting?” Shiro asks him as he cleans off his plate. “There are only hares and such up here, and some mountain goats, but they look so majestic I’d hate to kill one – and I’m not sure I could,” he admits sheepishly.

“Hard to hunt big game without use of a bow and arrow,” Keith agrees, and rises to clean off his plate beside Shiro, shoving the rest of the jam and toast in his mouth. 

“I’m sure you’ve hunted your fair share,” Shiro tries again when Keith has finished chewing and their dishes are put away.

Keith wipes his mouth of crumbs and shrugs. “Some. Here and there. I hunt bigger game.”

Shiro’s eyebrows shoot up. “Bigger than mountain goats?”

Keith smiles. “Oh, yes. Much bigger. Smarter, too...sometimes.”

“Are these creatures in some faraway land you’ve visited?” Shiro asks, wondering what on earth he could be talking about.

“Oh, no. They’re quite common.” Keith’s smile fades slightly, and he clears his throat, glancing away. “They’re, ah, um, red deer. In the north.”

“You’ve hunted red deer?” Shiro exclaims. “I thought only kings could do that – or something like that, I don’t really remember the legend, actually.”

“Well, I must be a king then,” Keith jokes, his eyes glittering. 

Shiro chuckles, and rises from the table. “Right, then, I’ll put on some more suitable clothing and meet you at the chapel doors when I’m done – will you be warm enough in the cloak and your old clothes, or…?”

“I will be warm enough.” Keith gives him a small smile. “Thank you, Shiro.”

“Of course, Keith.”

Keith watches him go with a curious, thoughtful gaze, but Shiro is too excited for their excursion to see it. He quickly dresses in his pants, belted wool tunic, and traveling cloak, and gathers up the traps he made in autumn, along with a fishing pole. He wishes he had two of them, so Keith could join if he wants to, but alas, one will have to do.

Keith is waiting for him by the door, and peeks at him over the fluffy fur collar. He looks rather flushed.

“I’ve never seen you wear anything other than your cassock,” Keith murmurs. 

“Oh, hah, yes,” Shiro chuckles, tugging self-consciously at his sleeve, the other tied neatly below the stump under his cloak. “It does feel rather strange. But I think I would be sure to trip if I tried to wear a cassock up to the stream!”

“Mm,” Keith agrees. “It’s not a garment meant for such...physical exploits.”

“Praying requires far less tromping through snow,” Shiro agrees.

The two of them make their way out into the frigid air and up the rocky path to the stream, which becomes steep quickly. Shiro worried the climb might be difficult for Keith, but he doesn’t falter once, and Shiro can feel Keith’s eyes on him the entire way up.

“Worried I might fall?” Shiro asks breathlessly as they pause at a bend, the mountain falling away to a sheer drop a few steps to the right. 

“I will not let you fall,” Keith retorts, and Shiro turns to look at him in surprise at the conviction in his tone. The slip in attention causes a slip on a patch of ice, and Shiro stumbles, arm flying out to catch his balance but only halfway succeeding – and then Keith is there, steadying him with one hand on his waist and the other on his arm, his eyes dark and mouth set in a frown. “Careful,” he murmurs. 

“I – yes, thank you,” Shiro wheezes, straightening up and finding his bearings. “How clumsy of me. Apologies.”

Keith’s frown deepens. He’s still holding onto Shiro. “Why are you apologizing for almost dying?” 

Shiro blanches. “Er – right, I suppose that makes no sense. Very true. Let’s just...walk a bit slower?”

“I’m right behind you,” Keith says quietly, and releases him.

And he is, and Shiro doesn’t slip again on their way up, or on their way through the sparse pine woods the stream is tucked within. Keith seems quite enamored by the woods, peering up into the branches and smiling when a few crows burst from the treetops to caw and soar off into the distance. 

“I suspect you must have been to many forests,” Shiro remarks, “probably far more impressive than this little patch of trees.”

“Many, yes,” Keith agrees. “But I like this little patch of trees. They’re very old, these trees. Trees are the oldest living things in the world. Did you know that?”

“I did not,” Shiro muses, looking at the scraggly pines with newfound respect, “but I can imagine it. They must be resilient to survive the storms up here. There is such beauty and resilience in so much of Nature.”

Keith hums. “Yes. And...you think your god created all this?”

“Hm?” Shiro glances about. “Ah, yes. It’s all part of the glory of His creation. Everything from those crows to the trees to you and I.”

Keith tilts his head, seemingly dissatisfied with this answer. Well, Shiro likes a challenge. “And what about evil things?” Keith asks. “Did your god create evil, too, if he made everything?”

Shiro raises an eyebrow. “There’s much debate about that –”

“I didn’t ask for debate, I asked what you thought.”

Taken aback, Shiro eyes him, then shrugs and says, carefully, “I don’t think God created evil. I don’t think I could trust Him half so much if he had done that. Evil is…” He waves a hand. “The Devil’s domain.”

“But didn’t your god create the Devil?”

“The Devil created himself,” Shiro says. “In a manner of speaking. He became evil. He was good first, and then – he fell.”

“So your god doesn’t have control over everything.” Keith concludes. “Is that why the Devil is evil? Because he couldn’t be controlled?”

“The Devil is evil because he is,” Shiro retorts. “He throws people into lakes of fire; I think that is plenty evil.”

“But only people who deserve it, right?” 

Shiro exhales in a puff of white breath. “Sinners, yes. Only the worst of the worst go into the lakes of fire, I suppose.”

“So maybe he’s just doing what has to be done. Every judge needs an executioner.”

“Keith, are you trying to build a defense for the Devil against a priest?” Shiro exclaims, both bewildered and a bit perturbed.

Keith shrugs one shoulder and looks away. “I’m not _trying_ to do anything...except understand.”

Shiro sighs, drops it, and says, “The stream is just up ahead. See any hares?”

Keith’s mouth twitches. “There was one earlier, but you scared it off with your talk of the Devil.”

Shiro looks at him, betrayed. “And you just let me keep talking about the Devil?!”

Keith huffs. “There’s another hare on the riverbank. Here, give me your knife.”

Shiro blinks at him. He brought his hunting knife, just in case, but he didn’t even realize Keith knew he had it. His hand flies to it, sheathed at his hip, and he falters. “Er – why?”

“Shh, quickly, before it runs off,” Keith mutters. Bewildered, Shiro hands him the knife, and gawks as Keith reels back and hurls the knife into the air, where it flies several meters like a javelin and plunges neatly into the unsuspecting hare in the blink of an eye. 

“What,” Shiro says. “Keith! I didn’t know you could do that!”

“I’m good with knives,” Keith says, and they hurry over to the hare, which is dead – it was, somehow, a perfectly clean strike. 

“Good?” Shiro shakes his head in disbelief. “Keith, this is incredible.”

Keith ducks his head, hair falling into his eyes. “It’s nothing, Shiro. Just take the hare.”

Shiro does, putting it in the game bag and continuing along the bank to set traps. Keith helps, putting a few in the underbrush, and they’re a little ways apart when Keith ventures too close to the frozen stream. Shiro hears the creak of the ice under his weight and then Keith cries out, dropping the trap as the frozen surface gives way.

It’s not a very deep stream, but it’s bitterly cold, and Shiro runs to him just as he falls through, struggling and waist-deep in the icy water. Keith’s eyes are wide and terrified when Shiro grabs at his wrist, and he flounders in the sluggish current until Shiro manages to haul him up and onto the bank. Keith shivers violently in the frozen mud; his cloak is soaked and Shiro makes a soft, worried sound before unpinning his own cloak and draping it around Keith, ignoring the bite of cold. At least the hare is still warm.

“I can’t swim,” Keith whispers, teeth chattering. “I – I hate water.” His eyes dart to Shiro.

“I should have warned you that the ice was thin,” Shiro sighs. “I’m sorry.”

“Do not apologize for saving me!” Keith snaps, his ears red.

“You would have managed,” Shiro says, patting his shoulder awkwardly. “It was nothing.”

“It was something,” Keith retorts, and hunches his shoulders, seeming to realize Shiro has given him his cloak. “Shiro, no – this is yours.”

“And now I’ve given it to you,” Shiro counters. “I’ll wear the wet one, that way we can share the cold amongst ourselves instead of you keeping it all to yourself, hm?”

Keith eyes him in disbelief. “If...if you say so, Father.”

“I do.” Shiro stands and offers him a hand, which Keith takes. His hands are ice cold and Shiro offers him his gloves, too, but Keith’s response is so flustered that he almost feels bad for doing so. “Let’s get back to the chapel, and I’ll make a nice warm fire for you,” Shiro tells him. “And some nice warm hare stew…”

Keith nods curtly, and Shiro wonders if he’s done something to offend the whole way back down the mountain. He watches Keith closely for any signs of hypothermia, but he seems to be only a little blue, which is to be expected. They make their way very slowly down the path and Shiro says a few silent but fervent prayers – the way down is even more treacherous than the way up – but all is well, and the two of them reach the chapel in one piece. 

Shiro realizes he’d forgotten about the fish as he builds up the fire in the kitchen hearth, but then figures Keith’s fall probably frightened off any fish foolish to stay in a frozen stream. No matter, there will be many more chances to go fishing...hopefully with Keith. Maybe Shiro can teach him to swim when the weather is warmer –

 _No, Takashi,_ he tells himself firmly as he tosses another log into the crackling fire. _He will leave at the thaw, of course. Don’t be silly._

But Keith makes him feel silly, and there’s no helping that.

Keith is bundled up in front of the fire in a small army’s worth of blankets, and he’s sitting so close to the hearth Shiro worries he might catch on fire himself. He looks so content, though, that Shiro can’t bring himself to say a word about it. 

“Feeling better?” Shiro asks, as he sets about skinning and preparing the hare for stew. 

Without looking away from the fire, Keith nods. “Yes. Thank you, Father Shirogane.”

It’s then that Shiro notices he’s holding something, roughly circular, disklike. Shiro pauses with the skinned rabbit and says, “What’s that there?”

Keith stiffens, and Shiro wonders if he shouldn’t have asked, but then Keith clears his throat and lifts it up in the firelight so Shiro can see it from the counter. “I found it in the woods. It’s a…” His breath hitches. “I don’t know what it is. I’m sure no one does. Some kind of symbol, a sigil maybe. It’s old.”

“As old as the trees?” Shiro jokes. He peers at the symbol. It’s like nothing he’s ever seen before, the carving swirling in a way that reminds him of a sun or a tree or perhaps a flame; there’s no telling.

“At least,” Keith says, but he’s not laughing. He curls almost protectively over the carving again. 

“Maybe it belongs to one of your mountain monsters, hm?” Shiro suggests. 

“I don’t think so,” Keith murmurs distantly. He tucks the carving away. “It belongs to me now, anyway.” He stands, the blankets falling from him, and walks over to Shiro and the hare. “I can help make stew.”

“Only if you want,” Shiro replies, “you’re a guest here, and if you need to warm up a little more –”

“I want.” Keith is suddenly very close, nearly tucked against his side. Shiro freezes mid-chop. “You’re very warm,” Keith tells him. “I’ll be just fine here.”

When Shiro’s arm starts working again, he continues chopping unevenly and ekes out, “R-right, wonderful, well, ah, if you could get some shallots and carrots from the pantry, that would be – so helpful.”

“Of course, Shiro,” Keith murmurs, and glides off across the kitchen to the pantry.

Shiro chops the hare with more force than necessary, until his hand stops shaking. By the time Keith returns with the vegetables, Shiro has convinced himself all is well, and together, they make far tastier hare soup than Shiro has ever managed on his own.

*

Three nights later, Shiro dreams of falling.

There’s no panic in the falling, only a faint bewilderment, and when Shiro sits up, he still feels no alarm though his bed is gone and he’s lying in a mass of dark clouds, their bellies flickering with distant lightning. 

There’s a figure approaching him through the clouds, a silhouette of undetermined gender. What is quite clear, however, are the wings lifting from their shoulders, fluttering gently in the strengthening wind. There are six wings, spread wide, shadowed. They look delicate, blurry and soft at the edges. Shiro cannot see their face, and feels he is not meant to, for their head is haloed in brilliant gold. He lowers his gaze respectfully, and soft laughter fills the clouded sky like a million silver bells.

 _You know me, Takashi Shirogane,_ the angel says, lovely and lilting. 

“You honor me,” Shiro whispers, aware that the angel is approaching him, and that with each step, his body becomes more and more awash with inexplicable awe, a mix of amazement and cold terror. When a warm hand cups his face, he shivers, and still does not look up. “I am your servant, Lord. What would you have me do?”

Long fingers, artist’s fingers, stroke his cheek. _Kiss me,_ the angel says, and Shiro looks up with a start. He knows that voice, those words. 

He wishes he hadn’t looked. 

Adam’s face is bloodied, unrecognizable. Lightning streaks across the black sky and the thunder – or maybe it’s an explosion of flames and cannonfire – drowns out Shiro’s scream.

He wakes up sweating and wiping at his wet eyes frantically, praying before he’s even fully conscious. The words bring him comfort, but the panic does not leave him. The darkness in his room is complete, and he fumbles with the tinderbox, lighting a candle and burning his finger in the process; he hisses at the sting and begins another stumbling prayer. 

It has been a long time since dreams of the war have plagued him. Shiro scrubs at his face with his trembling hand, then, laying in the pool of weak candlelight for a few shaky moments, resigns himself to a sleepless night and rises from his bed. His nightshirt falls just below his knees, so he takes his blanket and wraps it around his shoulders to guard against the creeping cold.

The church is silent, and Shiro wanders from his chambers out into the chapel, intending to kneel at the altar and pray a while longer, perhaps until dawn. But when he steps into the quiet nave, he realizes he is not alone. Someone already kneels before the altar – no. Not someone. Something. 

Its silhouette is all he can see in the gloom, but it is enough to determine the inhuman, infernal shape of it. It has an arching back and limbs he at first cannot comprehend, but then realizes must be wings, stretching ever upwards, so dark they seem to become one with the shadows, not like an angel’s feathered wings at all, but more like a bat’s, or else some creature unknown to man. A long, thin tail lashes behind it like a whip, and Shiro takes a step back, heart in his throat, as his ears catch up with his eyes and he hears it speaking words, chanting them low and harsh and alien. 

Shiro steps forward, and the floor creaks under his weight, and the creature turns, its eyes glowing the dull, deep red of live coals. Then it spreads its wings and darts around the altar, vanishing into the shadows.

Shiro doesn’t think. He turns on his heel and runs to Keith’s room, gathering every word of exorcism he knows upon his tongue, fearing he will be too late, that this place that should have been safe will instead become Keith’s grave –

No, he cannot think of that, it is the dream, the image of Adam on the battlefield that haunts him; it has troubled his soul, brought these foul specters into his mind, his church. He will not allow them to bring Keith to harm, if in fact it is real, and not some terrible hallucination.

Shiro flings open Keith’s door and runs to his bedside, hand falling upon his shoulder before he realizes what he’s doing. To his relief, Keith is asleep and wakes with a soft, confused sound, rolling over and peering sleepily up at Shiro. Keith hums, and reaches out, the brush of his cool fingertips over Shiro’s heated cheek like the fleeting kiss of snowflakes, jolting Shiro out of his panic. He draws in shallow breaths, still staring, still leaning over Keith’s bed.

“Father…?” Keith murmurs, and starts to sit up. Shiro takes a step back, at once aware of their proximity, of the privacy he has invaded. “Is something wrong?”

“I thought,” Shiro gasps, and steadies himself, takes a breath, then another. “I thought I saw something. I was afraid it – it would hurt you.”

Keith’s lips part. “Fear not, Shiro,” he whispers. “Come here. Please, closer.”

Shiro stumbles to him, as if tugged by an invisible thread, yet one he does not want to break free of. He folds to his knees beside Keith’s bed, their eyes level as Keith blinks at him, then reaches out and takes his hand. He squeezes just once, but it is so much. Shiro doesn’t want to let go. “Let me pray over you,” Shiro pleads. “A blessing, of safety and protection…”

Keith’s eyes flicker. He swallows, and sinks back against his pillow, not releasing Shiro’s hand. “If you must,” he says, and closes his eyes as Shiro begins to pray.

He says the prayer of Saint Michael the Archangel, remembering his dream, pouring into each word the intensity of that feeling of awe and adoration within him at the sight of the winged figure. “Sáncte Míchael Archángele, defénde nos in proélio, cóntra nequítiam et insídias diáboli ésto præsídium…”

Keith’s grip on his hand tightens near to bruising, and his cool fingers grow warm and clammy, and his nails dig into Shiro’s skin, and Shiro wonders if he, too, feels the power of the prayer, washing over the room and through them both. 

“...divína virtúte, in inférnum detrúde. Ámen.” It is not a very long prayer, but when Shiro finishes and opens his eyes, he sees Keith is trembling, a thin sheen of sweat covering his brow. He lets go of Shiro’s hand hastily, and Shiro will not notice until later, but his nails have left ivory half-moon dents in Shiro’s flesh. 

“Thank you, Father,” Keith grits out, keeping his eyes shut. “I do not doubt the strength of your prayers against – whatever evil you may have seen, or thought you saw.”

“Of course,” Shiro assures, and stands, hesitating. “I’m sorry to have woken you, but…”

“It’s fine, Shiro.” Keith doesn’t sound fine. He sounds exhausted. He rolls away, onto his side, facing the wall. “Goodnight.”

“Goodnight,” Shiro sighs, and leaves him in peace.

He searches the chapel for any sign of the evil spirit, but there is none, save for a single faint whiff of unfamiliar incense, so brief Shiro cannot be sure his senses are not just deceiving him, as mortal senses are wont to do.

*

In the following days, Keith says little to him. He is sullen and taciturn, and Shiro worries that he is being a poor host, but does not know the source of Keith’s apparent unhappiness. The blizzards continue, not so bad as before, but still bad enough to bury a man alive. Keith will not be traveling anytime soon, and they both know it.

Shiro does not see the spirit again, and thinks that either he imagined it after all, or else it fled.

It is in the worst storm yet that the villagers come to him – they do not often brave the trek to the church on Sundays in the winter, but this Sunday they come, huddled and stubborn, greeting Shiro in their own tongue, the one they have taught him, the one he still endeavors to speak the Word to them in, someday. But today, they gather in the pews, and Shiro begins to read for them, and lead them in the hymns they have learned together – some he brought them, and some they brought him, and some are a little of both.

Keith does not sit with them among the pews, but Shiro catches him once, lingering in the narthex, arms folded. His expression is queer, a slight and indecipherable twist of his mouth and a furrow in his brow. But Shiro tears his attention away from Keith, turning back to his hungry congregation, who seek warmth and hope of a time beyond this endless snowfall in each verse, each song, each prayer and chant. 

He has taught them also of the saints, and the villagers seem to like the idea, and often pray to their chosen saints, or else ask Shiro which saint is for what. Which saint should they pray to for the hen to lay more eggs (Saint Brigid), which saint will help them find their missing spoon (Saint Anthony), which saint will help them find love (Saint Anne and Saint Joseph), which saint will bring a good harvest (Saint Isidore), and which will make the weather kinder (Saint Medardus)? Shiro knows the villagers often invoke saints and their old gods in the same breath – but he takes what victories he can. 

After the service, some of the villagers leave straight away, but others remain to speak with him, and he patiently listens to them all, gives them what advice and comfort he can, tells them to pray and trust in God if he cannot help. He takes confessions, too, in the chapel’s old confessional booth. 

Most chapels have two booths, at least, but there is only one priest here, so he must make do. He hears any number of whispered, frantic, guilty, and not so guilty secrets, and holds them all close to his heart, praying with them for forgiveness and redemption. As usual, the last of the villagers leaves with Shiro feeling as if he could have done more, but there are only so many hours in the day. It is dusk by the time they are all gone.

Keith emerges only when the chapel is empty once more, and Shiro is extinguishing the candles. “You are a very strange priest, Shiro,” he says.

Shiro pauses, and turns to him. “Why do you say so?”

“Few priests work alone,” Keith counters. “Most have another priest, or else a friar, or maybe even nuns nearby – but you, they left you alone up here.”

“No one else would come,” Shiro admits. He raises an eyebrow. “Do you think it strange that I did?”

“No, I think your faith is strange,” Keith retorts, an edge to his voice. “You are a good man, Shiro. A kind man. But you don’t belong here, and you know it, and those people out there know it.”

Shiro frowns at him. “I am not a mountain dweller, it’s true, but –”

“No, Shiro,” Keith snaps, now advancing down the aisle, shaking his head. “What is your _plan?_ To remain here, alone, an outsider, until you die or they send you somewhere else?”

Shiro falters. Keith has been sharp with him before, but this is not that – this is anger, frustration bubbling to the surface with rising heat. “Keith, I know the life I’ve chosen, and it’s not the life of a traveler like you –”

“No, what you’ve chosen is no life at all.” Keith stops in the middle of the aisle, his eyes narrowed. “I’ve met hermits, Shiro. Those who truly enjoy their solitude, and wish for nothing more. But you wish for more. Don’t you? You didn’t join the Church out of faith, but out of loss and guilt – and it never filled that emptiness, did it, Father?”

“I don’t know what you’re referring to, Keith.” Shiro stares at him, firm though his heart pounds frantically. 

“You’re _hiding,_ up here in the mountains,” Keith retorts. “That’s why you said yes to this position. Wasn’t it? What are you hiding from, Shiro? Yourself?”

“Keith…”

“The easy answer would be that you’re hiding your heretical translations, wouldn’t it, but that’s not the real answer, because you can’t even admit that to yourself –”

“Keith, _enough!”_ Shiro slams his fist down onto the altar, the candlesticks rattling, one toppling over, spilling ashes across the floor. He stops, stricken at the outburst. “I’m – I apologize, I…”

Keith stands still, impassive and unmovable, hands in fists at his sides. “You don’t need to hide, Shiro,” he says, quieter than before. “Not from me.” He shakes his head, brow furrowed. “I should not have come here.”

He turns on his heel and walks down the aisle, and right out the church doors, into the swirling snow from whence he came.

Shiro stands numbly at the altar, then crumples over it, feeling as if he will weep, but unable to shed a single tear. It’s better that Keith’s gone, he tells himself.

How many times has he told variations of that to himself before, and how many times has it really been the truth? God won’t answer these questions. Shiro’s asked. 

And the truth is, he’s only ever gotten awful, endless silence in reply. 

Shiro tells himself there’s peace in the silence.

But he already misses Keith’s voice.

*

For a few days, Shiro pretends that nothing is amiss. 

He tells himself that this is how it has always been, that he has spent many other winters alone, and this one should be no different. He tries to persuade himself that he cannot feel Keith’s absence in the church, which feels so much colder now than it ever has, and he devotes many more hours to prayer and stillness, but for the first time in a long time, holy words give him no relief, no respite from the gnawing in his chest which can have no name but loneliness. 

Is Shiro lonely? Has he always been lonely? Surely not. He has never been one who needed many friends, nor who felt especially renewed and at home in the presence of others. He enjoys the presence of his congregation, of course, but it is a different kind of presence than that of a crowded table with noisy, drunken soldiers.

Shiro finds himself drifting back into memories of the wars no matter how much he attempts to turn his thoughts instead to the saints and the heavens. The war itself, Shiro is sure, was hell on earth. But there were moments – good moments, strung between the horror of it like little rubies. 

Sin was not something Shiro thought of often in the war. What he thought of was life, death, pain, and pleasure. One had to take the life and pleasure where they could...and he had. So many stolen kisses, hot hands on bruised and bloodied flesh, uncaring of the battles’ grime that never quite came off, but lingered like the teeth digging into his neck, lips whispering words no scripture knows, or dares to know. 

Shiro had thought himself cold and perhaps broken before the war. Blushing milkmaids and pretty servant girls and even the perfumed ladies of the city had never made him look twice. He understood beauty well enough, but it was not until he found himself among so many other young men, bare-chested and golden with sweat, that he understood desire. Such lusts are unholy, and such unions even more so – but Shiro cannot, _will not_ forget how right they felt.

It is true that his vows were not forced upon him, but Shiro took those vows in grief, for he did not know then how he could ever bring himself to lie his way through love and marriage after he had felt such love and lust as he could never before imagine. 

He did not know how he could ever again bring himself to touch someone as he had Adam, thought himself broken all over again, this time torn quite literally asunder, and thought it would be a mercy to himself and the world to lock that brokenness away.

But it has not, he realizes within those cold, empty walls, been a mercy after all. He finds comfort in his prayers, his work, and the scriptures. But it is a fleeting comfort, the comfort of a warm fireplace that will eventually fall into smoldering embers, and Shiro fears he is running out of kindling. 

Eight years, and what has he to show for it but more gray hairs, a reluctant congregation which tolerates but does not welcome him and likely never will, and a pile of manuscripts that would get him sent straight to the stake if they were discovered? And if Shiro were to finish them, what then? The villagers can hardly read, and have shown little interest in learning, and perhaps it isn’t his place to teach them after all. 

When he first arrived, he was so full of foolish hope, sure he would be able to bring the light of civilization and learning and faith to this desolate place. But he did not arrive to a blank slate. When Keith said that the villagers had stopped their sacrifices, their prayers, their tending to their altars, he did not say it like an accomplishment, but like an accusation.

If Shiro left – would anything change? Would the villagers breathe a sigh of relief and say aloud to each other, _It was about time he gave up and went back to where he came from,_ and then return this church to its original purpose?

Shiro tries very hard not to think about the church’s original purpose. It was always a place of worship, but not always of godly worship. There was a temple first, a shrine to the creatures the mountain folk now whisper about in low, guarded tones. A dark place of pagan worship, now buried by the white stones of the chapel. 

Shiro does not know what went on here, on this now hallowed ground, but as the days drag on and he becomes more and more aware that he is alone there, he cannot help but think again of the spirit he saw before the altar. Are there remnants, demons who never left – or perhaps who feel compelled to return? Is this ground not hallowed after all?

His thoughts whisper with the horrors of blood sacrifices and sacrifices of the kind Keith told him about – bodies writhing with ecstasy that is certainly not divine, with each other, losing their minds and souls to whatever hungry beast awaited them. 

These thoughts should strike righteous fear into Shiro’s heart, as they always have before. But now he finds himself respond with the most dangerous of all feelings instead, the original sin itself: curiosity.

It is this curiosity, he thinks, which causes him to pause in Keith’s room as he tidies it for its next guest, another traveler, though Shiro doubts they will be able to hold a candle to Keith. He is folding the wool blankets when a piece of parchment flutters out from beneath it, folded into quarters and resting at his feet.

Shiro peers down at it, hesitating for a long moment before setting the blanket aside and bending to pick up the paper, unfolding it without any idea what to expect. His breath catches, and he stares. Rendered in swift, strong charcoal is his own face, not staring back at him but tilted downwards in prayer, his hand curled into a soft fist, his lips parted. 

Shiro can hardly recognize it as himself, for there is...a kind of _beauty_ in it. The scar across his nose is not marring, but graceful in the grays and blacks, a smooth sweep shadowed by the pale fall of his hair. He does not look old and weary. He does not look like himself. Frowning, Shiro folds the paper back up again...and then his gaze drifts to the stack of parchment on the small table in the room.

Shiro swallows. He should simply burn the drawings, and not invade Keith’s privacy further.

He should.

But he does not.

He sits on the edge of the bed with the stack of drawings, and begins to look through them, expecting some variety, perhaps sketches of the church’s architecture, or else the snowy world outside, or perhaps some scenes from Keith’s travel.

But all of Keith’s drawings are of him.

And they are all terribly, impossibly beautiful.

Shiro finds it difficult to draw in air as he sifts through them – some sheets are covered in sketches of his own face from a dozen different angles, others are studies of his hand, his smile, his eyes – it is too much. This is what he thinks even before he reaches the more, ah, _anatomical_ studies of himself, and almost drops the entire stack, his hand shaking in violent disbelief, mouth opening and closing soundlessly at the image of himself sprawled out in the very same bathtub he filled for Keith on his first night at the chapel. 

The scribbled water is a mercy, but Keith has not held back on anything else. Shiro’s face heats as his gaze frantically traces the chiseled lines of muscle, the swell of his own chest, biting his lip hard. It – it’s true that he takes great pains to maintain his physique as much as possible, given his injury, but how could Keith possibly know? Shiro does his exercises in private, and his cassock is long and shapeless and reveals very little of his actual form...or so he thought.

The drawings get worse from there. Shiro blinks at his own naked back, rendered in loving detail, down to the scars across his shoulders, each placed perfectly. He gawks at one that appears to be only of his thighs, bare and bulging, and bites back a distressed whimper, flipping faster through the stack before he does actually drop it at the sight of the last drawing. 

It’s himself, slumping back against a chair, legs spread and head tilted downwards, hair falling into his face, watching as he wraps a hand around his swollen cock. Shiro clamps his hand over his mouth, staring at the drawing where it has fallen to the floor with the others. It – it even looks like his cock. Perhaps that’s an absurd thought to have, when the more pressing matter is that Keith depicted him in such a way at all, but _it looks exactly like his cock,_ down to the slight left curve and the vein standing out along the side _._ How – _what –_

Shiro was mistaken. It wasn’t the last drawing in the stack. There is one under it, and Shiro doesn’t know why he plucks it from the floor, his grip tightening, crumpling the edge of the paper, as he makes sense of what he’s seeing. This sketch is not just of himself. Keith is there, too, kneeling between his legs, one hand squeezing Shiro’s thigh and the other wrapped around the base of Shiro’s cock as his lips stretch wide around the girth of it.

Shiro is hard so fast he’s dizzy, cock hardening under his cassock as it has not in – years, really, not in the usual rhythms of his body upon waking, but out of real desire. He drops the drawing as if it burns him, but he cannot unsee it, cannot banish from his mind the image of Keith’s enraptured expression, the dark of his eyes, the way he fits so perfectly in the cradle of Shiro’s thighs –

Oh, God, he cannot stop. Cannot stop himself from staggering to his feet, not to leave the room, but to reach with a frantic hand for Keith’s pillow, bringing it to his face and inhaling deep the scent of it, imagining he smells something of warmth and skin and sweet incense within it, his cock stirring to full and heavy hardness, tenting the stiff black fabric shamelessly. 

Shiro falls onto Keith’s bed, weakness overtaking him, curling on his side and shuddering as his cock jabs insistently at his belly, trapped where he refuses to touch it. Yet he finds himself bringing the pillow to his front nonetheless, gasping in wordless relief and agony when his hips hitch hard against it, rutting fast, too fast, shallow and needy into the soft give of it. 

It is undignified and unholy and he does not care, cannot possibly care when all he can think of is Keith’s hot mouth swallowing him down, wringing release from him with his soft lips and catching every drop on his hot tongue, holding Shiro’s cock in his mouth as he begs and pleads for mercy; but Keith would give him none, would simply tighten the seal of his lips and begin anew.

This is what pushes him into helpless climax, muffling his low moans in the blankets as he spills, cock still trapped beneath his cassock, between his belly and the pillow. Shiro lays there, twitching and trembling in the aftermath, for a long while. 

He has defiled himself, and he seeks the guilt he knows must come of it, but instead he finds satisfaction, and this frightens him more than any spirit before the altar.

*

That night, his dreams are more vivid than any of the others. 

He’s a foolish youth again, tangled in an empty barn stall with a boy whose name he can’t remember. Can’t, or doesn’t want to? The boy’s nails dig into his ribs through his tunic as they kiss, and Shiro’s skin burns, and the hands on his body warm. 

The heat is never uncomfortable, no, it ignites something under his skin, curling through him and clawing up his throat and smoothing across his tongue as it slides against the other boy’s and suddenly the shadows of the barn rafters shift. Shiro pulls away, dazed, and finds himself face to face with the angel again. It’s so strange; something in its face is familiar, but he can’t put his finger on it. Its hair is long and tumbling, and soft when he reaches out to touch, wondering and hesitant. The angel smiles, bright and shining.

“Am I dreaming?” Shiro asks. “Or is this...a vision?”

The angel tilts its head. _His._ Shiro doesn’t like to think of angels as gendered, for they are after all neither human nor of this world, but he looks at this one and just knows, somehow. _What do you want it to be, Takashi?_ the angel asks.

Shiro pulls away a little, blinking at the angel’s beautiful face and snow white wings arching gently over the two of them. “Who are you?” he asks, not disguising the note of wariness in his voice. Appearances mean very little to the master of illusion and deception.

But the angel just shakes his head and shifts closer. _You need not fear me,_ he murmurs. _You fear corruption and wickedness, but I bring only the deepest sense of pleasure and peace. What do you feel, now, in my presence, Takashi?_

And Shiro can only say that he has never felt so quietly content as he does then, in the angel’s faintly glowing embrace. He does not understand it, but gazing into fond indigo eyes, he feels certain that this being can be nothing less than holy. 

Slowly, Shiro relaxes, lips parting when the angel leans down to lean his forehead against Shiro’s. _You gave yourself to God,_ he murmurs, _and I am of God. Would you give yourself to me?_

Shiro’s eyes widen. “What – what do you ask of me?”

 _It’s a simple question._ Shimmering fingertips skim over his lips, trace the curve of his jaw. _You are such a loyal, humble servant, Takashi. Don’t you think you deserve a reward for your selflessness?_

Shiro shivers under his touch. The barn is long gone; the world around him is blurred and escapes definition. “I – what – what reward?”

The angel chuckles, a sweet and silver sound. His hands warm, and slide down Shiro’s sides. He’s bare, he realizes, and sucks in a startled breath. Not frightened, though. He could never be frightened of something divine. 

_Trust me,_ the angel murmurs, soft against his lips, and Shiro nods, and surrenders.

In that slipping, strange way of dreams, time blurs and then all at once Shiro is filled, consumed, gasping and caught in a whirlwind of sensation. He’s been fucked before, of course – a long time ago – but this is not fucking. Or if it is, then Shiro has no idea how he ever gave it up. The angel’s touch on him is like a brand, and it’s addicting, an instant feedback loop of dizzying pleasure.

Slender fingers stroke down his body, caressing his heaving chest, his arching hips, and at last curling around his cock. Shiro thinks, distantly, that he ought to resist it, or at least try to – but why? He’s forgotten entirely. All he knows is the way the angel touches him, kisses him, holds him tightly and rocks against him, into him. There is no pain, but it is overwhelming beyond words, and Shiro feels tears spilling down his cheeks. Soft lips brush them away, even as his wrist is pinned above his head, his thighs spread wide, his body stretched to what must be its limit. 

_Look at you,_ the angel purrs, teeth tracing down his jaw, sweet and sharp _._ Shiro’s mouth falls open as its hips roll against him, and finds himself suddenly desperate to touch the angel, to hold him, to reciprocate somehow. It’s been so long, so terribly long, since he shared pleasure with anyone, much less with himself.

“Please,” Shiro whispers, “let me kiss you.”

The angel gazes down at him. Its face is no longer so otherworldly, but more human, and Shiro aches all the more for it. He knows this angel. He wants him. He’s wanted him since the first moment he laid eyes upon him.

 _You are kissing me,_ the angel replies, but his eyes are knowing. He sits back, releases Shiro’s hand, frees his body from the claiming embrace, lets Shiro take control, take what he knows he needs.

Trembling, Shiro sits up and reaches for the angel; he wants to sob when his hand frames narrow hips, fingers digging into soft, warm flesh, tugging him closer. When Shiro kisses the angel’s throat, he sighs in Shiro’s grasp and falls into him, head falling back with a gasping, greedy plea. Once he’s started, he cannot stop. Each kiss is a spark, fueling a fire Shiro did not know he still had within him. 

_Yes,_ the angel whispers, and he knows that voice, dripping slow and thick and dark like ink and honey. _Yes, Takashi. Like that. Just like that._

Shiro wakes up with a pounding headache and ruined smallclothes. He stares at the ceiling. He cannot remember the dream at all – he only knows with terrible certainty that it was about Keith. 

What is _happening_ to him? Has he been cursed, or – has his nature finally caught up with him? And if it has – why does he not feel greater guilt? These memories, these feelings, this desire for carnal sins of the flesh...he has spent years trying to tamp them down, to forget them, to move beyond them. 

But now that they have returned, it does not feel like as much of a failing as it should. He thinks of Keith, thinks of his sketches and his strangeness, and shivers with something more like anticipation. He is afraid, yes, terrified of what this means. But – Keith is gone. Keith isn’t coming back. So perhaps it won’t hurt to savor the fantasy just for a little while, until it naturally fades into obscurity as it ought to. 

*

And then Keith returns two nights later in weather even worse than the first night he appeared, and in far worse shape. It is not his cry, but his pounding upon the doors that alerts Shiro to his presence – three loud knocks, no more. 

Shiro can’t dare to hope when he opens the heavy church doors once more to the swirling snow, but then he sees Keith crumpled on the snowy steps, kneeling and breathing in a shallow, ragged rhythm like every breath hurts. 

When he lifts his head with effort, his eyes on Shiro are as dark as they have always been, but the gleam within them has something spiteful in it, an edge sharp as a blade. Perhaps Shiro should heed it as a warning, but he does not, cannot. He helps those in need, and Keith is certainly in need.

“Father,” Keith rasps as Shiro gasps and helps him to his feet, staggering into the chapel with a low and furious hiss. “I should have – on the first night –”

“Hush, hush,” Shiro soothes, faltering as Keith’s knees give out from under him. “Oh, Keith – what’s happened to you?”

Keith doesn’t feel cold, in fact, his skin is burning up where he touches Shiro, and Shiro fears a fever. He looks up at Shiro, panting and glowering. “I’m hungry,” he growls. “No – not hungry. Starving.”

Shiro reaches for him again. “I have some soup from supper –”

“Not _that_ kind of hunger.” Keith’s eyes are depthless pits, and when Shiro lifts him up, wishing he could carry Keith properly, the traveler lets out a shaky groan of pain. “Take me to bed, Shiro.” It’s a command, and one that Shiro refuses to read a double meaning in. Keith is sick, delirious, that’s all. Dutifully, Shiro guides him back to his old room, making up his bed and tidying it as Keith slumps against the mattress, still shaking, still burning up, still staring at Shiro dark and intent. 

“If not soup, then what can I give you?” Shiro frets, bending over him, gaze tracing over Keith’s prone form with worry, shoving aside all thoughts of his past indiscretions and loathing himself for the way he lingers helplessly on the arch of Keith’s chest off the bed, on the shape of his splayed thighs and the space between them. 

Keith’s stare drifts away from him, settling instead on the table, on the stack of parchment there, his eyes widening with the realization that it has been moved. Shiro’s heart stutters as he whispers, “So...you saw my drawings.”

“It’s fine, Keith,” Shiro insists, even as he struggles to form the words, “I didn’t see much, anyway, but I would not think of you differently, it is – it is not a sin to...to look…”

Keith is looking at him, his eyes swallowing up the rest of the room, dragging Shiro closer, closer, threatening to consume him, too. “No,” Keith agrees, “but it _is_ a sin to pleasure yourself while looking.”

Shiro flinches back. _Tries_ to flinch back. Finds he cannot move away, finds he doesn’t want to move away. “I – forgive me,” he whispers, shame clawing its hot way up his throat. Keith’s eyes do not relinquish their hold on him, demanding recompense. “It has been – so very long – and I could not stop myself –”

Keith chuckles, a mocking curl of sound tight around Shiro’s chest. “Why should you stop yourself, Takashi?” he murmurs. “Why, when it feels so good, so right?”

Shiro has never told Keith his first name, his full name, and spoken aloud there is an uneasy vein of power in it, one that makes him tremble. How does Keith know? What else does Keith know about him? And why, why is Shiro leaning in ever closer, gaze flicking down to the parted, pink sheen of Keith’s lips like he can imagine nothing with a sweeter taste? Why is he not afraid?

“Tell me,” Keith murmurs, tipping his head back on the pillows but holding his gaze, holding him, “tell me how it felt, Takashi. Did you think of me, of taking me, of worshipping me with your mouth and hand and cock?”

This is sacrilege. This is heresy. But Shiro already feels like he is aflame. “Yes,” he breathes, a helpless little sound, one that Keith receives greedily, his pupils dilating until the indigo of his irises is little more than a sliver of color against the black. “Keith – my vows, I cannot, I should not, but –”

“But?” Keith coaxes, gentle, though the air is taut with tension, hot and close. 

“But there is something about you that makes those vows seem more meaningless than they have in a long time,” Shiro admits, his eyes dropping again to Keith’s mouth, “and – and yet it seems impossible that you are not simply mocking me now, tempting me only to laugh at me because you are – so beautiful, and I...I am just –”

Keith’s hand shoots up from where it lay limply at his side, his fingers curling with bruising strength around Shiro’s wrist. “Mocking you?” he growls. “But surely you are mocking me when you protest the simple fact that you are the most beautiful man I have seen in a long, long time.”

Shiro swallows. “Don’t,” he breathes, “don’t say that if you don’t mean it.” His head is clouded, as is his vision – the only point of clarity is Keith, and that’s the way it should be, the way it has always been…

Keith’s nails dig into his wrist, and they’re sharp, shockingly so. “If I did not mean it, you would be nothing by now.” His eyes narrow. “There is something about you, too, Takashi Shirogane. Kiss me.”

Shiro hesitates, thinks dizzily that Keith is _letting_ him hesitate, for the heat and confusion ceases for a moment, for long enough that his head is blessedly clear when he at last thinks, _Forgive me,_ before exhaling and cupping Keith’s cheek, leaning down to kiss him with trembling lips. 

Keith does not tremble, but moans softly under him as if Shiro’s lips are the best thing he has ever tasted, his hand sliding up Shiro’s forearm to grasp at his shoulder, dragging him down until Shiro is half-atop him, Keith’s mouth slotted hot and wet against his own, tongue parting his uncertain lips and sliding inside in a way too sweet to feel like an invasion. Keith makes another sound, soft and pleased, arching up to meet Shiro’s body with his own, and only their chests are pressed together but Shiro’s cock stirs and the still-unfamiliar sensation jolts him into a panic as the realization of what he has done sinks in. 

Shiro tears himself from Keith with a horrified gasp, covering his mouth, his reddened lips, stumbling away from the bed, so terribly aware of his cock hanging hard and heavy between his thighs under the stiff black cassock. Keith’s eyes blink open, and they are not forgiving. “I’m sorry,” Shiro gasps, “Keith, I can’t, I can’t,” and with a fury Shiro is not prepared for, Keith leaps out of the bed and lunges for him. 

Shiro turns on his heel and flees the room. 

He’s not sure why he does it, why all at once he is deeply and utterly _afraid._ Maybe it was the vicious gleam in Keith’s eyes or the sharpness of his nails or the way his mouth twisted in an ugly snarl when Shiro pulled away. All Shiro knows is that he runs down the hall, out into the chapel, Keith staggering from the room, made slightly slower by the weakness that ails him, but only slightly. 

Shiro isn’t thinking straight when he looks frantically for a hiding place, and his gaze lands upon the confessional. It’s as good a place as any. He just needs enough time to collect himself, and then once he’s composed a proper apology he can face Keith and make things right. Shiro ducks into the priest’s chamber within the confessional, the curtains closing behind him as Keith bursts into the chapel. Shiro sits where he usually would to receive penitents’ confessions on the uncomfortable wooden shelf, resisting the urge to peer through the latticed screen which separates his closed chamber from the penitents’ open one. 

Just because he cannot see, however, does not mean he cannot hear – and what he hears chills him in a way he cannot describe.

 _“Shirooo,”_ Keith calls, his voice echoing through the chapel, adopting a sing-song quality as sweet as it is warning. “Where have you run off to? Don’t you know it’s rude to leave a lover wanting?” Keith clicks his tongue loudly. “Oh, I _know_ you know. You’re no fumbling virgin. You have known the heat of a luxurious bed, I can _smell_ it on you.”

Shiro’s face warms, his hand flies to cover his mouth in disbelief. _Smell?_ What – 

“Oh, yes, I sense your lust, your loneliness, it clings to this place like a shroud and I am here to lift it for you, Father. Let me do that for you, won’t you please?” Keith laughs, and it is cruel. Shiro does not know what is happening, but the fear that has taken root within him grows as Keith’s footsteps grow nearer, and louder, for though his feet are bare when he walks there is a strange _click, click, click_ like he wears some manner of steel-toed boots.

Keith stops. “I tire of this. Were you like any other of my lovers, I would have charmed and taken you to pieces upon our first meeting.” Shiro’s eyes widen. “But I found it an entertaining pursuit to tempt such a pretty priest...such a good, devout man. And I had you, but then I thought, wouldn’t it be sweeter if he _chose_ to fall into my bed instead? And you did. That was not the kiss of a man uncertain. You’ve already chosen, Father – don’t lie to yourself. So choose a little more. Let me show you that pleasure you have so long denied yourself.”

Shiro shakes his head, hunched over in the confessional, holding his breath as Keith approaches the penitents’ side, each step measured. The wooden booth creaks as he steps inside. “Do you understand yet why I came here, Father? I am no lost traveler. I know exactly where I am, for this place was once _mine._ It is _my_ temple you have stolen, desecrated with these cold walls and self-denying faith, and so I am come to desecrate _you_ in turn, which is as much a punishment as it is a gift, hm?”

Shiro has forgotten how to breathe. His temple? His? What can he mean by this? Keith is no priest, no holy man – but...Shiro cannot help but lean forward just enough to catch a glimpse of him beyond the latticed screen. 

When he makes out even the faintest glimpse of the figure standing on the other side, Shiro cannot stop himself from gasping in horror – for the figure is horned, winged, with clawed hands and feet and a lashing tail and human skin marred by red patches of shining scale, and it is the very figure Shiro saw crouched before the altar, it is Keith, Keith is – 

The demon turns its head to look at the screen, and burning crimson eyes meet Shiro’s with a flare of triumph. That is all Shiro sees before he is shoved from behind as if by a great force, and he falls forward with a cry. By all rights he should crash face-first into the confessional screen, but instead he falls through, and instead of hitting the floor he finds himself impossibly, awfully stuck in a hole between the two sides of the confessional that certainly was not there before. It is just big enough to fit around his waist perfectly, but no further – he can barely move an inch in either direction, and it is with this frightening realization that Shiro lifts his eyes to his captor.

In the candlelight, without the screen’s obstruction, the sight of Keith is even more terrible, his leathery wings arching and his teeth jagged as he tilts his head and smiles down at Shiro. Gone are his threadbare, patched up clothes, replaced by a fine, sheer white tunic with a plunging, barely laced neckline, black leggings, and a long red cloak with a dark fur collar and delicate golden embroidery that looks fit for royalty. The pattern is one of endless briars, curling thorny branches crowned with so many gleaming, gilded roses, surrounding Keith’s regal, terrible frame in swirls of the rich cloth.

Slowly, Keith kneels before him where a penitent would, but he is not penitent. Shiro is caught in the middle of the wall, so that their eyes are now level when Keith kneels, reaching out to grasp his jaw with a wickedly clawed hand.

“Heaven preserve me,” Shiro croaks, trying again uselessly to wriggle backwards, but finding himself utterly caught by the grinning demon. 

“Oh, no,” Keith coos, claws digging into his face, “heaven is not here, and I intend to ruin you, not preserve you.”

Shiro gulps, shoving again against the wall with his hand, trying to gain some leverage. Keith’s eyes narrow in annoyance, and Shiro gasps as his wrist is seized by some invisible grip and bound behind his back, anchored firmly there though no rope holds it. At the immobility, Shiro’s bewilderment turns to terror, and he turns his face away with a helpless whimper as Keith leans towards him. “Please,” Shiro gasps, “have mercy – I beg of you, I did not know this was your – your temple, I never meant to cause you harm –”

“No, you only meant to fuck me,” Keith murmurs, and Shiro flinches, breath shortening as Keith traces his jaw with his sharp, sharp claws. “Didn’t you? Lying is a sin, Takashi.”

Shiro’s eyes blur with tears, but not because it’s a false accusation – because it’s a true one. He _has_ found Keith alluring from the first moment he saw him in that storm. His gaze drops with shame. “Yes,” he whispers. “God forgive me, yes.”

Keith makes a soft sound. “And is that such a terrible thing, Takashi? To want me, to want to pleasure me, and for me to pleasure you?”

Shiro cannot look at him, for it all makes such awful sense now. “Now I _know_ you are mocking me,” he chokes out, “when you say I am beautiful and that you want me – you only say so because you are a demon of lust, for who else could ever want me?” He lets out a ragged, wretched little laugh, and Keith draws back for a moment with a frown, his brow creasing.

“You think I treat all my, ah, _lovers_...this way?” Keith shakes his head slowly, again cupping Shiro’s face. “No, no. I take their pleasure from them uncaring of the consequences. But not you. I want to take my time with you, and I think you want me to, too.” Keith tilts his head. “I even made myself an angel for you.” Shiro’s eyes fly wide, breath shallowing, and Keith huffs. “But those were good dreams, weren’t they? Not nightmares. Not evil.”

“You – you _tricked_ me,” Shiro whispers, thinking of the angel’s hands on him, of it, of _Keith_ – inside of him – oh, God.

“You’re a smart man,” Keith retorts. “I don’t think I could have tricked you unless you wanted to be tricked.”

Shiro swallows hard. He doesn’t deny it, and some of the fear melts away at the memory of the dreams because – they _were_ good dreams. The angel, Keith, whatever he is – he was _kind,_ in the dreams. Perhaps – he will be kind again?

Keith leans back on his heels, considering Shiro, who must look quite a sight, trapped and tearstained and blushing as he is. “Tell you what, Father. If you can tell me, honestly, sworn on your God’s name, that you _don’t_ want this, don’t want _me,_ then – despite my _ravenous_ state – I will free you and leave this place.” 

Shiro blinks at him incredulously and Keith shrugs. “What? My flattery isn’t empty, Father. I like you. Hmph, I even let you _pray_ over me. So you have my word, which is the best sworn oath I can give you, for I don’t serve any dark master, difficult though that may be for you to believe. I serve only myself. Now: yes, or no?”

Shiro swallows. “I – I swear on the Lord’s name – that I – I don’t –” He _tries_ to say it. Tries to summon up the word he must say, the word he vowed to say, but it will not come. And he knows in his heart that he cannot blame his inability to speak the word on any wicked magic. It is not magic, but the lust deep within him, the deadly curiosity coiled with it like two serpents in his chest. It is not magic, it is simply that to say he does not want this would be a complete and utter lie, and he cannot swear to a lie.

And Keith _likes_ him. It is foolish that this makes his stomach fill with butterflies, but it does, all the same.

Keith’s smile widens. “I’m sorry, what was that, Father?”

Shivering, Shiro lifts his gaze to the expectant demon. He may burn for this, but if his translations were truly heresy, he would be destined to burn anyway. Shiro has already sinned, and already atoned, or tried to, for so many. He’s only human, in the end. And he knows it is a dangerous thought, but a part of him whispers, _What if there is no fire waiting for me at all?_

Shiro wets his lips. “I don’t want you to leave,” he admits.

Keith’s lips curl. “Good,” he says, and leans forward again.

Shiro falters. “Will – will you not free me now, if you plan to bed me?”

Keith giggles and shakes his head almost fondly. “Free you? No, pretty priest, I don’t think I will. I think I’ll enjoy you right here, so you won’t try to run away again. We can’t have that.”

Shiro gawks at him. “But – but, I’m –”

“Stuck? Yes, that’s rather the point,” Keith drawls, and stands, leaning against the opposite wall in the small booth and, to Shiro’s shock, unlacing his pants and shoving them down just enough for his cock to slip free of them. Shiro saw it once before, in the bath, but like Keith’s form, it is now changed, the heavy reddened curve of it shining with unnatural slickness on subtle ridges along its length, the crown of it tapered and inhuman, peeking out from the textured foreskin. It’s still plump and long – longer, Shiro thinks, than it was before. 

Keith takes himself in hand, lips quirking at Shiro’s flustered ogling, eyes darting between Keith’s smug face and hardening cock. “Thoughts?” Keith asks casually. “I’m open to suggestions.”

Shiro stares at him. “You – you mean to say –”

“Yes, I can change my shape,” Keith chuckles. “Within reason...usually.” He raises an eyebrow. “Do you like it, Father?”

Shiro’s face burns. _“Don’t_ – don’t call me that, not while – ah.”

Keith takes a step forward, still loosely stroking his cock, and in Shiro’s position he is eye-level with it and realizes with a dizzying mixture of shame and anticipation what Keith is planning. “You’re no fun,” Keith scolds, “but... _Shiro_ is a very pretty name to say, as is _Takashi_...you like it when I call you that, don’t you, Takashi?”

Squirming, Shiro wets his lips and stammers, “Keith – you – if someone were to come in –”

Keith’s eyes darken. “You think I’d let another soul see you like this?” He growls, low and deep in his throat. “This is all for me, Takashi.” Keith takes another step forward, and Shiro trembles as the demon grasps the base of his cock and guides it to brush against Shiro’s cheek, leaving a sticky trail behind. “Now, be a good boy and suck my cock, hm?” He drags the tip over Shiro’s parted lips.

That’s all the warning Shiro gets before Keith grabs his jaw, tilting it upwards to feed his cock into Shiro’s gasping mouth. Shiro is helpless to resist as soon as the taste blooms on his tongue – there is the salt and heat of skin but there is also a sweetness, slowly growing in intensity as Keith’s cock fills his mouth, and Shiro’s eyes flutter shut at the unexpected pleasure of it, though his jaw already aches and Keith wastes no time in burying his cock inside up to the base. 

Shiro doesn’t know how this is possible, thinks he should be gagging, for he can feel the fat crown of Keith’s cock in his throat but there is no urge to fight the sensation. There is only a desperate need for more of it, more of Keith. Shiro finds himself moaning around the hardening flesh, salivating until drool runs from the corners of his stretched lips. It makes the slide of Keith’s cock ever easier as he begins to rock his hips into Shiro’s eager mouth, leaning one forearm across the confessional screen to brace himself while his other hand sinks into Shiro’s hair with surprising gentleness, not yanking but simply stroking his pale forelock from his brow. 

“Perfect,” Keith sighs, and Shiro’s eyes fly open in surprise. He glances up, and sees Keith gazing down steadily at him as he fucks Shiro’s mouth in slow, rhythmic thrusts, the demon’s burning red eyes fading to a more familiar indigo around the edges, the furrow of his brow unexpectedly fond. “So perfect for me,” Keith repeats, and Shiro can’t help but whimper around his cock, breathing harshly through his nose as Keith’s cockhead cuts off air, smothering him in the thick taste of strange nectar, coating his tongue, tingling over his stretched lips, dripping slow and sweet down his throat. 

“Do you like that?” Keith chuckles, petting his hair and rocking his hips faster. Shiro squeezes his eyes shut with a shaky groan, and it must feel good for Keith too because he growls, “Yes, Takashi, just like that. Why would you ever vow to deny yourself this pleasure?”

Shiro makes a muffled, wet sound as Keith’s cock thrusts faster, harder, deeper, until Shiro’s nose is pressed against dark, silken curls and Keith’s balls rest heavy and _full_ on his chin, a dark metallic red like the base of his cock. The scent of him is much like the taste, but more musky, underlain with something hot and powerful, like cloves or cedar. Shiro’s chest burns but it isn’t from a lack of air – in fact, he burns all over, as if feverish, and he’s panting around Keith’s cock, trying to get closer, to swallow more of him down, suckling desperately to draw out more of that taste, more of that heat. 

On the other side of the wall, Shiro is hard, and he cannot even be ashamed of how frantically he tries to rut against the wall of the confessional, his cock still trapped beneath his cassock, in his smallclothes, straining against the cotton and just barely managing to rub against the wooden wall. He feels precum drip down his trapped cock, making a wet spot in his smallclothes and probably staining his cassock as well, and the thought only makes Shiro harder, more frantic. 

Even Keith seems a little surprised by his fervor, his hand tightening in Shiro’s hair, claws scratching lightly against his scalp. “Ah – _hah,_ Father, you really – were pent up, huh?” Keith laughs, strained, and Shiro is further encouraged by his breathless voice and pink face. _He_ did that. _He_ made Keith feel that good. Keith grins and shakes his head, his cock twitching on Shiro’s tongue, now big enough that Shiro’s jaw hurts, but he doesn’t care; everything else feels far too good to care. “And I haven’t even come yet.”

Shiro sucks harder, tongue flicking over swollen veins and the slippery cockhead as it slides in and out of his mouth, every fiber of his being intent on making Keith come. He can already imagine it – he always liked that part, swallowing it down, even though he knows it’s filthy to say so. He hopes Keith comes a lot. The tingling in his throat is stronger than before, spreading outwards over his skin. Distantly, Shiro thinks that he feels drunk, or – or _something._

And then Keith bows forward, slumping against the confessional screen and shoving his cock back into Shiro’s throat as he comes, hard and hot and it’s _so much._ Shiro does choke then, his bound hand twitching uselessly behind his back, his knees giving out from under him on the other side of the wall, his hips shuddering, fucking into nothing as his cock drip, drip, drips at the sensation of being filled in a new way. 

Keith’s come pours down his throat, and he swears he feels it in his belly, still hot, tingling like his precum but even stronger, and the tingling spreads down, down until it finds his cock. Shiro cries out as Keith steps away, his cock falling from Shiro’s mouth as Shiro’s mouth falls open, come running in thick rivulets down his chin with the drool already there. Shiro pants heavily, his whole body aflame and trembling with sensitivity and arousal, his chest pushing outwards as his nipples chafe suddenly against the cassock’s rough fabric, oh, heavens above, what has Keith done to him?

When Keith steps away, Shiro lets out a plaintive whine, sweaty hair hanging into his messy face, and for a moment he fears Keith will leave him here like this, bound and unfulfilled. But instead the demon coos at him, kneeling and taking Shiro’s face into his hands with a soft, deceptively sweet smile. “You did so well, Takashi,” he praises. “I knew you would. Did I hurt you?”

It’s a startling question, and through the haze of need pulsing through him, Shiro shakes his head slowly, unable to look away from Keith. “What – what’s happening to me?” he moans, as distressed as it is desperate. 

Keith purses his lips. “Oh, that? That’s just...one of the effects of my seed on humans. It’s very useful...doesn’t it make you feel good?”

“I feel,” Shiro gasps, and bites his lip, tasting the sticky remnants of sweetness there, “so much, I – I need – I don’t know, I, I –”

“Shh, shh.” Keith strokes his cheek, and there is genuine surprise in his glowing eyes as he studies Shiro. “I’ve never seen it affect a human so powerfully. You poor thing, denying yourself release for so long.” He leans closer, lips parted, then licks Shiro’s cum-splattered jaw, and then licks slow across his even messier lips. Shiro shudders, but not with disgust, for even though Keith’s tongue is forked and long, it only makes him feel greater need. “Is that what you want, Takashi?” Keith murmurs. “You want me to make you come?”

Shiro moans wordlessly, nodding, and begins to beg before Keith cuts him off with a deep kiss, his tongue forcing Shiro’s mouth open again, not nearly as thick as his cock but Shiro still sucks on it as if it were, and Keith growls before drawing back, a string of saliva connecting them. When Keith stands and turns to go, Shiro thinks he could cry, and doesn’t understand why Keith is walking out and away until the other side of the confessional creaks and a clawed hand squeezes his clothed thigh. 

Shiro freezes, breath shallowing, staring at the puddle of cum on the confessional floor in disbelief as Keith settles behind him, hand sliding up to shape his thigh through the shapeless cassock, and then higher, over the curve of his ass. Shiro’s cock throbs, and he lets out a tiny, frantic sound. 

Keith chuckles, so quiet Shiro almost misses it, then says nothing at all as he continues to run his hands over Shiro, his other hand joining the first, kneading his ass and slowly spreading the cheeks apart. Shiro bites his lip harder when claws dip between them, thumb rubbing over the pucker of his hole through two layers of fabric, and then Keith’s thumb is joined by his tongue, licking a long line between Shiro’s cheeks until the cloth is wet and Shiro is trembling.

Keith’s claws dig into the stiff cloth, and then he _rips_ it apart, Shiro jerking in shock as his lower back is exposed to the cold air of the chapel. The ruined cassock falls open, exposing his ass and legs and making Shiro all the more aware of how heavy and aching his cock is in the smallclothes Keith is now stroking, still ignoring Shiro’s cock in favor of licking over his hole through the thin cotton, a pleased sound rumbling in his throat. Shiro struggles to stay quiet – he cannot cover his mouth, for his hand is still bound, and it takes all of his upper body strength to keep his head up and not slump onto the cum-splattered floor. 

He gives up staying quiet, however, when Keith remarks, “Something so pretty should be wrapped in something pretty, don’t you think?” and Shiro feels the pressure on his cock and ass tighten, change – his smallclothes have been altered by the demon’s strange magic, and Shiro doesn’t understand until a claw hooks under the waistband and snaps it against Shiro’s ass, and Shiro feels the scratchy-soft texture of lace, his face burning in disbelief as the lace tightens further around his cock, shaping it perfectly, unbearably. Keith’s claws return to his ass, this time digging into it through the barely-covering lace, a claw settling on each cheek and beginning to tug the lace apart. 

“K-Keith,” Shiro gasps, “what are you –”

The delicate lace tears down the middle, exposing Shiro’s hole but keeping his cock and balls trapped, and he lets out a despairing whimper when Keith laughs and licks again, this time directly over his hole, and that’s all the warning he gets before the demon’s slippery tongue is tracing his rim and licking inside, teasing flicks at first and then with more pressure, both sides of the forked tongue slip inside and Shiro cries out, in the shock and the shame of it, back arching as Keith growls and he feels it within him, feels it as Keith licks deeper, forcing more of the writhing length inside. 

Shiro’s hole stretches wide around it, wide enough that he thinks it should begin to hurt but there is no sting, only the demon’s saliva tingling in his ass like his come did in his mouth, turning everything sensitive, needy. Shiro gasps and kicks helplessly and Keith holds his legs down, claws scratching over the lace until one finally, finally finds its way to Shiro’s cock and squeezes, _hard._

Shiro thinks he blacks out when he comes, because when he reaches some sense of awareness again he’s laying with his face in the sticky, cooling puddle of come and something is truly wrong with him because his first instinct is to lick it up, lapping it off the floor and shuddering as his tongue tingles with heat anew. Dazed, he realizes that Keith’s forked tongue is slipping from his ass, and Shiro pleads for him to stay, babbling, but the demon does not leave him empty for long.

When something slim and firmer than Keith’s tongue presses against his winking hole, Shiro doesn’t know what it is, but then Keith coos, “You can come again before I fuck you, can’t you, Takashi?” and as it thrusts inside, curling and spearing him open, Shiro thinks frantically, _it’s his damned tail,_ the wicked tail with the spade-tip that he can now feel plunging inside him, curling and searching for something –

Shiro _screams,_ back bowing, shaking the entire confessional as he arches and writhes, the spade-tip rubbing insistently over his prostate and jolting his softening cock – or had it ever gone soft at all? – into full arousal again, the soaked lace clinging wet and filthy to his hard length as he moans and bucks uselessly and Keith purrs, “Now, now, you’re making such a mess, Father.” 

It’s true; Shiro’s cock leaks uncontrollably with the tingling oversensitivity consuming him and with every torturous swipe of Keith’s tail within him, milking spurts of precum from him until he’s shaking and begging, mouth fallen open, sweating and shuddering with every touch. He finds himself spreading his legs wider, desperate for more, and Keith praises him and he clings to the sweet words, choking on pleasure as Keith exhales hot over his ass and licks into him alongside his wriggling tail, and that’s it, it’s enough for Shiro to come untouched, cock pulsing, drenching the lace panties a second time.

And this time Shiro _knows_ he stays hard because he can _feel_ the ecstatic agony of it, the pressure building at the base of his cock, in his trapped balls and in the merciless slide of the lace over his twitching cockhead. He can feel too the awful emptiness when Keith backs off again – his hole is gaping, clenching around nothing; spit runs down his thighs and he feels used, utterly exposed and on display, and, and – and he’s horrified to realize _he loves it._

“Keith,” Shiro gasps, giving up the battle of keeping his head up and slumping back against the floor, shuddering at the press of his chest and nipples against it, “don’t – don’t tease me, I beg of you!”

“And how lovely it is to see you beg,” Keith drawls, claws circling his hole, giggling when Shiro tightens uselessly again and whimpers. “But I think you should tell me exactly what it is you want, Father. I made you come...isn’t that all you wanted?”

“No,” Shiro sobs, “no, no, fuck me, _please fuck me,_ I need it, _need you –”_

There’s a silence, an almost stunned silence, and then the confessional shakes as Keith _snarls,_ and Shiro goes still because the presence behind him feels suddenly bigger and then – then Keith’s cock rests over his wet hole and Shiro bites back a curse because it’s huge; _Keith is huge,_ his clawed hands now covering Shiro’s ass completely as he guides his cock to rub over Shiro’s hole. Shiro can only sob and beg for it, can only cry out ragged and frantic as Keith’s cock slides inside and fills him _and fills him._

Shiro’s hole takes it, greedy and squeezing around the demon’s length as hot breath pants across Shiro’s back and Keith growls, “So fucking good for me, Takashi,” and cups Shiro’s waist, his leathery palm covering Shiro’s cock. Shiro groans, eyes rolling back, squirming between the friction of his hand and the throb of Keith’s cock buried in his ass, already desperate to come again yet even more desperate to make Keith come inside him. 

His belly is still full of the sticky heat that drives him closer and closer to an impossible third climax, and in his delirium all Shiro can think is _more, more, more._ He thinks not of the church, of his vows, of heaven nor hell nor demons nor angels. All he can think is that being fucked by Keith is the best thing he has ever felt, and he loses himself to it, Keith’s tail winding around his legs and pulling them to drape on either side of Keith’s hips as he shoves deeper, angles himself until every thrust wrenches a shout from Shiro’s hoarse throat and shakes the confessional ever more dangerously. 

And still Shiro’s cock swells and as Keith groans and fucks him faster, the demon’s tapered cockhead sliding deliciously over his prostate again and again, and then deeper, deeper than should be possible, but Shiro is untroubled by this; he opens to each thick slide and opens further still when Keith’s cock begins to thicken at the base, a round intrusion that Shiro welcomes. “You can take it,” Keith promises, claws scratching over Shiro’s hips, “take all of me, pretty priest –”

Keith comes with a grunt as if struck and the force of it makes Shiro come, too, come pumping into him just as Keith’s knotted cock sinks fully within him, plugging him up to the flood of tingling, addictive heat. Shiro’s cock, however, does not soften, and now there is some clarity in the desperate urge to come, to fuck, to feel what he has not allowed himself to for so long, though none of what Keith has subjected him to is a pleasure he has known before – it is all so much more. Keith’s come fills him, settles deeper than his cock, thick and hot, the heat of it both intense and exactly what he needs.

As they pant together in the aftermath, Shiro imagines how long the demon plans to keep him here, stuck on his cock, shaking and helpless and begging, and with the lust comes a slowly rising rage that only serves to make his cock harder. 

How dare Keith defile him in his own church, in his own damn confessional, when Shiro was only ever good to him, only ever kind and welcoming and respectful and how dare Keith draw such filthy pictures of him and how dare he tempt him and make such sins feel so good and how dare he shove Shiro into this _stupid wall_ like some undignified _whore –_

Shiro’s panting is so loud and harsh that Keith takes notice of it. The demon seems to have returned to a more human size, pulling out with a pleased groan and petting Shiro’s ass with smaller but still-clawed hands. “Isn’t that better, Takashi?” he coos. “See, that wasn’t so hard –”

The demon may be sated, but Shiro isn’t. With a strength he has not used in a long while, augmented by the demon’s wicked magic within him, Shiro surges up, and the confessional wall cracks in a dozen places. 

Keith lets out a startled yelp and scrambles back as the wall splinters, shakes, and at last gives way just enough to free him. Shiro forces his way backwards out of the hole, chest heaving, knees shaky but holding as he stands and stares down at the demon. Come drips hotly down his thighs from his swollen hole and his cassock is ripped all down the back and he can’t find it in him to care. Keith leaps to his feet, glowing eyes wide and shocked, wings lifting behind his back. His lips part. “How did you –” Keith starts, but Shiro doesn’t wait to hear whatever he has to say. 

He lunges for the demon, grabbing him by the back of the neck, hand fisting into his hair and wrenching him up into a bruising kiss. Keith’s sharp little teeth slice at his lips and his forked tongue tastes like musk and sweat and Shiro doesn’t care, only hisses and ruts his hard cock against Keith’s taut stomach. 

The demon is still fully clothed, only his cock exposed, and Shiro pulls away to tug at his clothing, yanking down his indecent leggings until they leave his ankles hobbled and tugging at the lacing on Keith’s sheer tunic with his teeth, the loose fabric falling away, and his cloak with it. 

Keith is laughing, albeit a little nervously, and winds his arms around Shiro’s neck with a coquettish smile. “Demanding, aren’t we?” he chuckles.

Shiro doesn’t laugh, and in that moment he doesn’t feel weak at all when he shoves Keith out of the confessional and into the chapel, yanks off the ruined lace with a growl and stalks towards the demon, lifting him up and onto his cock in one smooth, vicious motion. 

Keith’s thighs squeeze tight around his hips and he gasps out a shaky moan, clinging to Shiro’s back as Shiro’s throbbing cock is sheathed in hot wet heat without the slightest resistance, Keith’s cock twitching between their bellies. _“Oh_ – Father Shirogane, you – should really ask before you – _mmnn…”_

“Shut up,” Shiro snaps, and drops him down onto the nearest surface, which is a pew, the entire thing creaking as he starts fucking the demon in earnest, each thrust barely a balm for the overwhelming need washing over him. Keith shudders and arches, but his brow is furrowed with frustration, as Shiro can only hold on to one of his hips and his shoulder aches from the effort. “Fuck,” Shiro hisses, “I need –”

“Yes, yes,” Keith pants, and then – _Shiro has another arm?_

He blinks at it, at the shadowy simulacrum of his old limb extending from his right shoulder, and at first he is amazed, for it must be a miracle – and then he is _furious,_ because, “You could do that all along?” he demands. 

Keith laughs, breathless, horned head falling back on the hard wooden pew. “Well, yes, but you hadn’t done anything to earn it –”

That’s fucking _it._ Shiro spits out a curse that startles even the demon, and lifts him back up into his arms, but this time he can hold Keith immobile as the demon squirms and clenches around his cock, kicking out as Shiro carries him down the chapel aisle and up to the altar. “What –” Keith claws at his back, moaning even through his weak protests, “Father, wait, what are you –”

Shiro plucks Keith off of his cock and bends him over the altar, breathing hard as he braces himself over the shuddering demon, his gaze drifting to the small bowl of holy water resting on the other side of the altar, his mind gathering the words of exorcism he has learned but never had cause to use...until now. But he hesitates.

Keith spreads his legs wider and sounds annoyed when he grumbles, “Get on with it, or I’ll take the arm away – _ah!”_

Shiro’s new right hand finds his throat and squeezes until Keith gurgles, facedown over the altar. “No,” Shiro warns, “you won’t.”

Keith chuckles, choked, and rasps, “Oh, I won’t? Hah, you’re more wild than any of the other priests –”

Shiro goes still. “What,” he whispers, “what other priests?”

Keith turns his head enough for Shiro to see his grim grin. “I had _many_ places of worship,” he retorts, “and I reclaimed them all, one by one, priest by priest. Your little chapel was the last one – my original temple.”

Shiro’s eyes narrow, and his heart pounds. “And what happened,” he manages, “to all the other priests?”

Keith pauses, a line between his brows. “I fed from them all,” he admits. “And then I killed them –”

Shiro sucks in a horrified breath, but not as horrified as he should be, and tightens his grip around Keith’s throat. “Foul creature,” he breathes.

Keith tenses under him. “I wasn’t going to kill _you,”_ he whispers. 

“And why not?” Shiro squeezes his throat harder. “Because you found my innocence _fun_ for you to ruin?”

“Innocence,” Keith repeats, and laughs breathlessly. “You’re not innocent.”

“I kept my vows –”

“And you broke them!” Keith retorts. “I gave you a choice –”

Shiro’s grip loosens for a moment on his throat. “There was never a choice for me,” he whispers, pained but honest, too honest, “with you.” He swallows. “Did you mean it?”

Keith’s hands curl into impatient fists. “Mean _what.”_

Shiro clears his throat, embarrassed despite – everything. “That you liked me.”

Keith blinks, and then, slowly, his lips curl. “Maybe. So what if I did?”

“Yes or no, demon.”

“Name-calling isn’t very nice,” Keith scolds, looking at Shiro over his shoulder from beneath his dark lashes.

Shiro’s eyes narrow. He grabs Keith’s hips fast, brings his cock again to Keith’s little pink hole, and sinks inside up to the hilt as he chants loud and clear, _“Exorcismos vero facias ac legat cum imperio –”_

Keith clamps tight as a vice around his burning cock, the demon’s writhing body heating up rapidly and spine and tail arching, wings fluttering and putting out several candles as the demon gasps wretchedly, “No – _no,_ don’t, _stop –”_

Even as he says it, though, his cock is hard in Shiro’s fist when he reaches beneath the demon to stroke it, his grip slow and loose as he hisses against Keith’s pointed ear, “How does that feel, hm? Going to behave now?”

“You wouldn’t,” Keith breathes, “you wouldn’t do that to me, you’re – you’re kind –”

With a decidedly unkind snarl, Shiro pulls out and slams back in again, the force sending Keith sliding further onto the altar, his hips bucking on the cold marble, _“ – et auctoritate, cum magno fide, et humilitates atque fervore; et videmus spiritum valde torqeuri –”_ It’s over half of the exorcism incantation, and Keith cries out, the genuine distress in his voice giving Shiro pause. Yet Keith’s plump cock is still making a sticky mess on his hand and – they may both be a little fucked up, he realizes. 

Keith is shining with sweat and trembling when Shiro pulls out again to roll him over onto his back, the demon lying limply on the altar and staring up at him with dazed, tear-filled indigo eyes, irises glowing red at the edges. It’s not a sight Shiro is prepared for and he wonders at how it is that he finds Keith so beautiful still, even with his curving horns, patches of red scales, his glowing eyes, his claws and tail and wicked wings.

But he does, God, he does. The pale moonlight emerges from behind a cloud, casting down through one of the chapel’s plain stained glass windows, and the altar is all at once bathed in that silvery illumination, almost ethereal, heavenly, and Shiro swallows at the way the radiance clings to Keith, calls to attention every inch of his loveliness. 

It is, Shiro thinks before he can take the thought back, the most divine sight he has ever seen in this place.

“Yes, the answer is _yes,”_ Keith moans.

“Yes?” Shiro echoes, stupidly.

“Yes, I meant it when I said I like you,” Keith whimpers, shaking his head. “I don’t want to kill you, Takashi Shirogane. The other priests deserved to die, for they were bad men, but you – you are not. You were kind to me, and I tried – I tried to be kind to you, too, but maybe I’ve forgotten how, hurt you instead, if you are angry with me now.” He swallows hard, the bob of his throat impossible to miss in the flickering candlelight. “I know you think – I’m an evil thing. I’m not. I’m _not._ I – I never wanted to be that.”

Shiro stares down at him, at a loss for words, and Keith turns his head away, his tense wings falling down to rest on the altar with the rest of him in defeat, his tail hanging limp between his spread thighs. “If you would choose to exorcise me then – maybe I deserve it. There is nowhere else for me to wander. Do what you will. I’ll even let you keep the arm, if you want it.”

Shiro blinks. The anger in him fades, though the lust does not, and he leans over Keith. “You tried to be kind,” he repeats. It’s hard to think, and he longs to bury his cock where it belongs again, but this is _important,_ and he clings to that last vestige of reason with a great deal of effort. Keith winces at his tone. “You...explain.”

Keith falters. “I – when I first came here I thought – I thought it would be like all the other places. The other priests either turned me away when I sought sanctuary, or were poor hosts, or showed their baser intentions before I had even made advances –”

Shiro’s grip tightens on Keith’s waist. “They hurt you?” he demands.

Keith’s gaze locks on him, his lips parting. “I told you,” he whispers fiercely, “they were bad men, and they deserved it.”

It’s a genuine struggle to quell the rising urge of violence in his chest – not against Keith, though. Never against Keith. Shiro stares down at him. “How did you kill them?” he asks.

“Slowly,” Keith breathes, “with my hands.” For a few moments they both just breathe, labored and hot, and then Keith adds, quieter, “But you were kind to me at every turn. Even when you prayed over me, you just...meant to help.”

Shiro eyes him. “But that...hurt you.”

“Yes. I hate Latin.” Keith wrinkles his nose, cheeks pink, like he wasn’t just getting off on it. 

“But you didn’t stop me,” Shiro says, uncomprehending. 

“If I’d told you to stop, you would have suspected I wasn’t what I claimed,” Keith huffs.

Shiro’s brow furrows. “No...I wouldn’t have. I would have just...stopped.”

Keith’s face does a complicated thing. _“Why?”_ It’s a plea.

“Because – you asked me to?” Shiro frowns at him. He’s confused. And still hard. But mostly confused, and concerned, yes, _concerned for the demon_ because the demon is _Keith._ “I’m – sorry it hurt you. That wasn’t the intent.”

“Of course it wasn’t.” Keith’s eyes are filled with tears again, or maybe they just shine so much on their own. “Are you going to send me back to wherever I came from now, Father Shirogane?”

Shiro inhales, and slowly shakes his head. “I wasn’t really going to exorcise you,” he admits. 

“Ah,” Keith sighs. “Fuck me, then the exorcism? Well, I won’t complain.”

“No,” Shiro whispers. “I don’t – I don’t want to send you away, Keith.” 

The demon blinks at him. “No?” he says in a very small voice. “Oh.”

“I missed you,” Shiro admits, “when you left. Why did you leave? Was it the prayer?”

Keith shakes his head. “I realized I couldn’t bring myself to kill you.”

“Oh.” Shiro chews his lip. “But then you came back.”

“Because I was very hungry,” Keith whispers, “and selfish. And I thought – I saw a certain desire in you.”

Shiro’s brow creases. “For sodomy, you mean.”

Keith huffs. “No.” He peers up at Shiro, searching. “For company. You’re lonely. Aren’t you?”

“I don’t know what I am,” Shiro admits. “Not a very good priest, at any rate.”

“But a good man,” Keith murmurs, reaching up, hesitantly, to cup Shiro’s cheek, “which counts for far more, anyway.”

“You barely know me,” Shiro retorts, but without venom.

“Maybe I want to.” Keith looks up at him steadily.

“Maybe?”

“I want to,” Keith breathes with greater certainty, “know you.”

Shiro shivers. “Well,” he mutters, “I think I know a place to start with that,” and he lifts Keith’s thighs to thrust back into him, and Keith lets out a breathless honk of nervous laughter, stuttering off into a moan when Shiro rolls his hips. 

Keith’s expression is still uncertain, but as Shiro works up a pace that is not so punishing, slow and deep enough to soothe the fiery want pulsing through him, Keith relaxes a little, sprawled over the altar in the moonlight, his cock leaking over his belly, more human now, a perfect fit in Shiro’s shadowed hand. “Tell me,” Shiro pants, “what – what were you like, before?”

Keith’s mouth falls open on a soft moan, lashes fluttering. “I – I was loved,” he gasps to the domed ceiling, trembling in Shiro’s grasp. “I was – kinder. People came to me – for blessings, for guidance, for pleasure, for – _good_ – before pleasure became – mmhh – a _sin.”_

Shiro’s grip on him gentles, because he can imagine it, imagine, past every warning of hellfire and winged beasts, a being that could not be defined, a being serving itself and its worshippers without spite or cruelty, but perhaps bestowing upon them the same overwhelming pleasure Keith had upon Shiro. And perhaps bestowing other things, too – performing miracles, healing the unhealable. The difference between miracle and witchcraft has always been a blurry line, anyway.

“This arm you’ve given me,” Shiro asks, “will it last?”

“As long as I will it to,” Keith promises, arching prettily as Shiro seizes him and bends him nearly in half, cradling Keith’s head in his palm to avoid the hard, cold marble. “Ah – Takashi, _please –”_

“I don’t think,” Shiro murmurs, “you are evil, Keith,” and he leans down to kiss him, crushing Keith’s body against the altar as he fucks them both to completion, Keith’s fangs splitting his lip when he comes with a sob, legs closing tight around Shiro’s hips, dragging him in like he’s afraid Shiro will leave in the middle of it. But Shiro doesn’t leave. 

Shiro holds him very close, idly licking the blood from his lips, and thinks about the rubies strung amidst the violence and the evil, the pleasures taken when he needed them most. He thinks nothing in the Church has made him feel so much, so good, so needed. 

He thinks of holding a lover in his arms years ago and thinks, with Keith, he might have a chance to feel something like that again. 

Shiro tucks his face into Keith’s throat and Keith doesn’t let go of him. 

“I think – maybe you should leave the priesthood,” Keith croaks.

Well, that’s a given. “And go where?” Shiro snorts. “Hell?”

“Hell is boring,” Keith informs him, and cards his clawed fingers through Shiro’s hair, slowly, softly, with a reverence Shiro is only just beginning to understand, as he traces the curve of Keith’s collarbone with his lips. “But...I can take you anywhere, Shiro. Anywhere at all.”

“I thought you’d already traveled the world.”

Keith hums. “Not with a companion.”

“Companion,” Shiro repeats, and presses his nose to where Keith’s pulse beats, more human than he expects. “Huh.”

“You could take your translations,” Keith offers, “if you wanted. Make more, if you wanted.”

“You could take your drawings,” Shiro retorts. “Make more. If you wanted.”

Keith giggles. It’s a good sound, and Shiro’s smiling before he realizes it. “You’re funny, Father Shirogane,” he says. “Maybe that’s what made me spare you. Not your kind heart but your wicked sense of humor.”

“Ha, ha.” Shiro’s face warms and he keeps it hidden in Keith’s neck. His cock is hardening again, and Keith feels it, lets out a startled little trill, and shifts invitingly up against him. 

Keith touches his hip, and when Shiro lifts his head to look into indigo eyes, there can be no mistaking the fondness in them. “Come on, companion,” Keith whispers, “take me to bed?”

Keith’s offering him a choice, again. 

And for the first time in eight years, Shiro doesn’t look to the crucifix above them to decide which path to take when he lifts Keith up and carries him off down the aisle. 


End file.
